


Taken For Granted

by Syntaniel



Series: The Long Road Home [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:51:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6279772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'artagnan is so eager, so willing to be a Musketeer that from the very first he flung himself at every opportunity within the brotherhood. But that very willingness masks far more then the inseparables believe. And their assumption may be costly...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not part of my threads of fate series. This is what happens when I'm torn on what I want to do with that one next with that one. ;)  
> Thus far, this fic is an exploration of the idiom "taken for granted." You can take someone for granted by forgetting or failing to show gratitude for their actions. You can take someone for granted by underestimating their value. You can take someone for granted by expecting that they will always be available. And, in its most simplistic form, you can take something for granted by assuming something to be true without testing or questioning it.  
> D'artagnan has recently come to the Musketeers and is making a place among them. But I was always struck by the things they didn't ask. The things they took for granted... So this is my what could have been.
> 
> 5/23: Chapters 1-3 have been edited for word choice and tense mistakes that were driving me crazy. No significant plot changes were made.

It was a beautiful day. Even Athos was smiling that little half smile of his under the shadow of his hat as Porthos howled in laughter, slamming his mug on the rough hewn table as Aramis finished retelling yet a grander version of the story of how they met (the third that week). The Spaniard's arms waved in expansive gestures and d'Artagnan grinned as he took a bow, stating firmly, "And that, dear boy, is how you take care of an angry husband."

Athos ran his hand down the blade he was polishing, the metal glinting in the sunlight, shaking his head as he said wryly, "Very useful, I'm sure, Aramis."

Which of course led to a rapid fire debate of all the times their long haired lothario had needed those very skills indeed with Athos stoically pointing out all the times it had nearly gotten them killed and Porthos chiming in by showing the scars that went with each adventure.

D'Artagnan only grinned the wider as the three got louder and more involved in their own argument. They barely took a note when a runner came for d'Artagnan to tell him someone was waiting at the gate for him. Athos caught his eye briefly but d'Artagnan waved him back to the discussion as he lithely swiveled off the table and moved towards the garrison gate. The sound of his friend's voices followed him halfway as they got more heated and d'Artagnan smiled fondly to himself as he turned the corner out of the courtyard.

 

The smile dropped away when he saw the figure at the gate. Without breaking his stride, d'Artagnan flicked a glance over his shoulder, thankful to confirm that he was out of sight of their table. He nodded blandly to the Musketeers at the gate as he walked out to join the man standing in the street outside, rather than inviting him into the garrison. Just past the gate, those on guard duty shouldn't be able to hear over the general din of the Paris streets. "You're a long way from Gascony, Jehan." His tone was wary and his dark eyes narrowed to get the best vision against the light. He could not help the way his hand hovered just over his scabbard.

 

The man, barely so, a year older than d'Artagnan if he remembered right, practically snarled at him, "I see you've charmed your way into their good graces, you loiter-sack. Do they give commissions so freely then these days that they give them to mongrels?" He was still taller than d'Artagnan but fair of skin, with brown hair and blue eyes, though both skin and hair were layered with the dirt of the road. And his face was still twisted and shadowed with the malice that d'Artagnan remembered all too well.

 

D'Artagnan breathed out slowly, fighting the urge to draw his sword at Jehan's words. That would likely bring the gate minders out, if only to watch. He rolled his neck slightly, letting the insult wash over him and narrowed his eyes, looking behind Jehan habitually to see if he was really alone. Jehan was braced, clearly ready for him to draw his sword, but he was making no move to draw his own knife and he stood alone in the street. His eyes were wide, wild almost, and the hollows under them spoke of days without sleep. His cheeks were equally hollow and his clothes were travel stained and threadbare in parts. D'Artagnan sighed and crossed his arms over his chest defensively, removing the temptation of his sword. If it brought his still shiny pauldron into the light, so much the better. "Jehan. What are you doing? If I didn't run you through then, I'm certainly not going to do it now. You haven't even drawn your knife."

Desperate blue eyes locked with his and after a moment, Jehan must have believed him as he seemed to slump in on himself. "I had to sell it, for food." He growled before glaring fiercely, resentment in every curve of his body. "You must know about the famine. About the farms. They're all gone. The whole town burned and all our crops and stores with it. Oh wait, you were too busy playing soldier here rather than protecting your home."

Dark eyes flashed and d'Artagnan found himself moving forward a step angrily before he stopped himself deliberately. "My home, now is it? Last I checked, the only reason you were sorry to see the back of me leaving that 'home' was that you were too far away to throw a knife in it." He set his jaw before he ground his teeth to nubs and forcibly unclenched his fists. He did not want the gate minders to have any reason to think anything amiss. "And I killed the man who burned Lupiac."

Jehan looked startled and then hopelessness washed out what little color his anger had given him. "I had hoped..." His jaw worked but d'Artagnan wasn't interested in helping him along. Finally, defiant eyes glared up at him, "I had hoped that if you killed me, you would take care of Julianna. We're starving. She's planning to..." The words choked off but d'Artagnan didn't need much imagination to know what a girl with no resources and no money was planning to do in the streets of Paris.

"You trusted my honor far enough for that yet it didn't occur to you to just ask me for help first?" His tone was incredulous but Jehan didn't bother to answer. It was written in his very posture, the proud line of his neck, the hate that still burned at the back of his eyes. D'Artagnan rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly tired. "Go away, Jehan. I have duties to attend to." The hate burned brighter and Jehan started to step forward until d'Artagnan held up a gloved hand. "I'll meet you at the Speckled Cockerel later tonight. It's just off the Boulevard Mountmatre."

Something that looked liked disbelief or maybe hope kindled in Jehan's eyes. As if he hadn't expected this last desperate gamble to work. D'Artagnan couldn't look at him. "Just go, Jehan. I'll meet you there tonight. I may be late, but I will be there. Don't let her..." He couldn't finish the thought, just turned on his heel to go back to the Garrison. He felt Jehan's eyes on his back, an itch between his shoulder blades, the whole way.

On the way back to his friends, d'Artagnan's mind churned. This was too much, too impossible. Reflexively, he shook his head, letting his dark hair conceal his face from the sides as he made his way back into the garrison and towards his friends. Several deep breaths worked their way through his chest, the ghostly twinge of well remembered pain sparking off his ribs before he straightened and brushed his hair back with one careless swipe of his hand as he rounded the corner back to their table.

Aramis and Porthos were still bickering, now about whose fault the scar twisting around the larger man's left bicep was. Athos looked up as d'Artagnan approached, clearly still amused, and raised his eyebrow in enquiry.

D'Artagnan smiled; it felt forced, but it must not have shown, because none of them commented on it. But then, d'Artagnan was an old hand at misdirection. "An old neighbor from Lupiac, passing through Paris. I'm going to meet him for dinner." He tossed the words off lightly, tone conveying nothing amiss. He didn't let himself meet Athos' eyes but he covered it by reaching for an apple despite the fact that he knew he could not stomach it right now, knowing such avoidance might be otherwise noted. Distance,  
distract, downplay.

And it worked, for Athos merely nodded as he moved to stand himself, clapping a hand on Porthos' shoulder to draw him away from the argument. "We stand at the palace today, so we should get these layabouts moving." None of them mention d'Artagnan's visitor again.


	2. Chapter 2

Palace duty was uneventful by the standards of the Musketeers - no shots fired and Porthos got the great joy of tossing a drunken footman out of the garden before he could disturb their majesties. All in all, a successful day. Aramis patted his horse's neck as he placed her in the care of the stable hands, the gentle chestnut tossing her mane in response, "Shall we off to the Gilded Crown then, gentlemen? I think such an uneventful day deserves a more promising end." His wicked grin left no doubts of his intentions and the others fell into step behind him without a thought.

It was only when Athos turned to look where d'Artagnan usually stood that he realized the younger man was still back at the stable. Brought forcibly back to reality, d'Artagnan lifted his hand as if to shield his eyes from the setting sun as he nodded at the other men, "I shall leave you to it then and join you in the morning."

Athos tilted his head consideringly, "You could join us later..."

Porthos chortled as he clapped a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, "Reminiscing with another farm boy can't keep you too late."

D'Artagnan smiled and it felt tight on his face, "We have to be back to the palace just after dawn and I do occasionally like to sleep. I shall see you at breakfast." His tone remained light and Athos apparently found nothing amiss on his face for he nodded in response and d'Artagnan watched his friends as they left the gate with no further comment. Wistfully, he listened to the sound of them fade away, already cheerfully bickering again, aching to be in his place beside them before setting his shoulders and striding off himself.

 

The Speckled Cockerel was as loud and dirty as d'Artagnan had expected. He had chosen it simply because it was the only tavern he knew his friends would not frequent and a woman could still dine with a minimal amount of molestation. He had no fond memories there to disturb and d'Artagnan was glad of it as he stepped into the dank pub. His emotions tangled in his chest like live snakes. He wasn't sure what he felt. He had expected to never see Jehan again. He would never have thought the man would turn up here, now, in Paris. D'Artagnan remembered when the mere sight of the man and his inevitable followers kindled rage in him. Shadowed memories of fear and pain, never too far from his thoughts, his dreams, crackled along his skin and bones like lightning. He shook his head again to clear the memories as he walked further into the tavern. He was a musketeer now and he would not forget that.

The smoke hung heavy in the air, dancing like shadows come to life in the flickering light. It took d'Artagnan's eyes a minute to adjust but then he spotted Jehan in the corner. He moved to join him, cutting through the crowded room with the ease of long practice. Jehan hunched over the table, his back to the room, and d'Artagnan slid onto the bench with his back solidly against a timber before he spoke. "Where's Julianna? You didn't let her..."

Jehan doesn't need to answer as a slim body in a dark plain woven dress slides onto the bench next to d'Artagnan. Her once long hair shorn and covered by a dirty kerchief, her dress just as travel stained as her brother's clothes, but some remnant of beauty is still apparent. Her long leg presses against d'Artagnan's, "Hello d'Artagnan. You look very dashing as a solider." It was nearly a purr. "And worried about me? How sweet." She leans closer and her last words are almost breath on his skin.

D'Artagnan starts and then shakes his head, deliberately putting distance between them. He rolls his neck and breathes out slowly as he forces muscles that had instinctively tightened to unclench. His voice was low when he spoke, "The last I saw of you Julianna, you spat on me like a dog and cursed me to the depths of hell. Even were I willing to allow this..." He can't finish the statement for the sick feeling in his stomach.

Jehan had the grace to look ashamed and starts to stutter out some words but Julianna cuts over him coldly as she sat up straighter and moved away to sit next to her brother, any pretense of warmth gone from her. "I have no pride left, d'Artagnan." She laid her hands bare on the table and d'Artagnan winced to see that several fingers are crooked, old breaks set poorly and healed as knobs and lumps under the skin. The hands would be functional, but only just and they would never be graceful again. "God has willed that I survive this long but if we are to continue..."

"Stop." D'Artagnan shook his head and Jehan almost immediately growled.

"I told you he wouldn't help us." He cast a mulish look at his sister and started to push away from the table roughly.

D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair wearily. The temptation to hide behind the dark locks, to pretend that it wasn't these two asking for his help... Tremors ran down his arms, shadows of remembered pain. If anyone deserved this, it was these two. And yet. "I will help you." He was desperately glad he hadn't eaten as his stomach twisted inside him. With an angry shove, he pushed himself up from the table, slapping a few coins on it as he moved. "That should cover a room for two nights. I'm on duty again tomorrow." He worked his jaw to keep from clenching his teeth. "The following day I'm at liberty."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, refusing to look at either one of them, wishing he was standing guard, wishing he was in a battle, anywhere but here. "The following day, I am at liberty and I will help you find positions."

As he moved to push past them, Juliana placed a hand on his arm and d'Artagnan froze. He didn't recognize the sound coming from his own throat. "Do. Not. Touch. Me." He bit off each word with a control he could feel slipping through his fingers. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to frighten her and d'Artganan felt a vicious little thrill at seeing fear on her face until his eyes caught on her mangled fingers again. He closed his eyes briefly against the sight, forcing his emotions back under his control. "The day after tomorrow. I will meet you here at midday." He didn't wait for a reply; he no longer cared.


	3. Chapter 3

When the first fingers of the next dawn crossed his windowsill, d'Artagnan gave up staring at his ceiling. He sat on the edge of his bed slowly, feeling every minute of the night like individual grains of sand in his eyes. Taking a long slow breath, he rubbed his hand over his face briskly. Through the window, he could hear the voices of other Musketeers starting to mill in the yard for muster and knew that soon his friends would be among them. If he wasn't there by then, there would be questions.

Keeping his mind carefully blank, d'Artagnan arose and pulled on his breeches. He didn't realize his hands were kneading the fabric over the scars on his legs until he recognized the feel of the raised skin under his fingers and he clenched his hands to force himself to stop. Purposefully, he moved to grab his shirt from the chair and let it fall over his head, feeling the well washed linen brush against his sides as it settled. He reached for his boots to keep his hands moving. They closed about his legs followed by his jerkin, the stiff leather belt, the cold steel of his sword and main gauche sliding into place, and the weight of the pauldron on his shoulder, grounding him.

Another deep breath, and he went down to the yard. Distance, downplay, distract. It was almost a mantra at this point.

Aramis was already at their usual table, a small pile of Serge's breakfast rolls sharing space with the pistol he was cleaning. "Ah, d'Artangan," he grinned up at him as the younger man approached. "I grabbed breakfast!" He spread his hands out in display, as proud as if he'd made it appear by magic.

D'Artagnan smiled at his enthusiasm as he took a seat, tossing a roll between his hands. He saw Aramis open his mouth again and mustered up a wry look, "You're in far too good a mood this morning. So who was the lovely lady last night?"

As he'd known it would, the question launched Aramis into the tale of the lovely barmaid who'd fallen to his charms in the dim light of the pub. "Ah d'Artagnan, you should have seen her. Her name was Chirani and she had hair as black as a raven's wing." He shook his own dark head. "Eyes as dark as a sea of wine." He slanted a glance up at d'Artagnan with a sly smile as the younger man held the roll against his mouth, "And hips that rolled like the waves."

D'Artagnan followed the unwritten script and gave a short laugh as he flipped the roll in the air again without taking a bite. "Of course they did."

Aramis winked as he grabbed a roll himself. "She was absolutely bewitching. Must have part gypsy."

"Your purse was certainly lighter by the time she was done, I bet." Porthos chortled as he walked up, unable to see d'Artagnan's flinch from behind. "Which is only fair since I took all the win'ins from the table."

D'Artagnan tossed him the roll in his hands and followed it with another to Athos, who nodded in thanks as he walked up to join them. Unable to summon up a proper smile, d'Artagnan rose from the table, letting the fall of his hair briefly cover his face before ineffectually pushing at it with his hand. "Shall we off to the palace then?"

Porthos shook his head in mock dismay as he pocketed three more rolls. "Rushing just to stand around all day is bad form, whelp." He considered the pile carefully and grabbed two more rolls but, despite his words, didn't bother to sit down.

His hat shading his eyes from the sun, Athos made a grunt that couldn't be interpreted but he too stayed standing and Aramis grabbed his own hat as he rose to join them. D'Artagnan saw him glance down at the remaining two rolls and squint down at them as if counting in his head. Before it could go further, d'Artganan darted forward and grabbed a roll, tossing it at Athos in one smooth motion.

As he'd expected, it bounced off of Athos' hat, exposing him full on to the rising sun and the others broke out into laughter at the resulting growl. "A morning person, our fearless leader, is not," Aramis crowed as he clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, breakfast already forgotten. "And how was your evening?"

Downing a roll in two large bites, Porthos wiped the crumbs on his breeches and grinned at them, "Did you enjoy reminiscing about fields and cows?"

That startled a short bitter laugh out of d'Artagnan and he kept the emotion off his face only with some difficulty. "Let's put it this way, Porthos," he forced a smile, raising a hand as if to shade his eyes from the sun, "I saw the dawn this morning before you." He nudged a shoulder into Aramis, "And I suspect Aramis never saw a bed at all. At least not for sleep."

As he'd expected, d'Artagnan's rejoinder made his friends laugh and started Aramis once again on the tale of his conquests as they moved on towards the palace.

***

"You're quiet today," Athos murmured at d'Artagnan some hours later. He didn't turn from his watch, surveying the elaborate gardens outside of where the royal couple were enjoying their cold lunch, but his shoulder brushed against the younger man's.

D'Artangan resisted the urge to look at him as he patrolled by his side. He rolled his shoulders almost unconsciously, the tension that had rooted in them from the moment he had seen Jehan knotting his muscles even now. "I'm fine, Athos." The words rang hollow and d'Artagnan mentally cursed even as he scrambled for something else to say. Distance, distract, downplay. He wiped a gloved hand over his forehead where olive skin was darkening from the sun and summoned up something akin to a smile, "It's hotter than hades out here and we've been playing toy solider for hours."

He could almost feel Athos' consideration beside him. Nothing about the statement was a lie: the sun had been beating down on them since the King's early morning desire to enjoy his gardens had turned into a luncheon picnic at his pavillion and leathers were not made for heat. Athos and d'Artagnan had been patrolling the outskirts of the area for the better part of two hours while Porthos and Aramis held positions closer to the royal pair under the shade. Keeping a walking patrol going was giving them at least the occasional time in the shade but not enough and both men were sweating.

"We could rotate you out with Porthos," Athos murmured but d'Artagnan was shaking his head almost as soon as he spoke.

"I'm fine." He didn't turn to look at Athos, couldn't meet those blue eyes, but kept his own gaze on the deeper parts of the garden. There was something... he couldn't pin it down. It was like he'd been expecting an ambush ever since he saw Jehan and the fact that it hadn't been sprung had his nerves wound tighter than a drum. His instincts were screaming at him but he couldn't trust them. Couldn't be sure if it was real or just memories he could not forget. There was something, something here even beyond Jehan. Something that resonated with the same kind of danger. D'Artagnan could hear Athos still speaking but the words weren't registering anymore and he didn't realize that he'd come to a stop. There was something...

Dark eyes flicked over the hedge rows rimming the garden. Shadows dappled the green hedge and there was the bright turn of white petals where flowers bloomed. But still something wasn't right... D'Artagnan was running before the glint of metal registered. His boots pounded over ground that blurred in his sight until he wasn't sure if he was running over grass or a dusty country road. Blood thundered in his ears, muffling the shouts of the others behind him until the words and the intent were indecipherable. D'Artagnan only ran faster, vaulting one of the lower hedges, heedless of the branches snagging on his breeches.

His sword was in his hand with no memory of drawing it as he flung himself around the hedge into the next lane. The shadow in front of him resolved into a man and d'Artagnan was diving for him even as a second man fled. His sword skewered the man's shoulder as he squeezed the trigger of the pistol d'Artagnan had seen glinting in the sunlight. They both crashed to the side, the shot going wild, as the musketeer struggled to disarm him.

They crashed through the hedge, too close for d'Artagnan to use his own firearm and his sword lost in the initial impact. The would-be-assassin jammed his wounded shoulder under d'Artagnan's neck, choking off his airway, as he drew his knife with his good hand. With a desperate wrench, d'Artagnan's drew his main gauche and thrust it up under his rib cage, piercing the heart and his assailant went limp on top of him. It was over in moments, barely more than the blink of an eye.

Breathing heavily, d'Artagnan pushed the corpse off his chest and freed his steel with a twist of his wrist. The burn in his throat turned into a cough and his shoulders bowed with the force of it. A warm hand landed on his shoulder and d'Artagnan jerked back, thrusting his back towards the hedge and bringing his main gauche up blindly.

"d'Artagnan!" Athos raised both hands and the younger man paled as he recognized who was squatting next to him.

"Athos," d'Artagnan breathed the name, blinking to clear his vision as he pulled his scattered thoughts together. "You followed me." The dagger and the hand holding it went to the ground to brace his chest as another round of coughing rattled through him, cutting off anything more he would have said.

"Are you all right?" Athos' hands hovered between them, as if he wanted to do something but couldn't decide what.

D'Artagnan waved him off regardless as he rubbed at the raw skin on his throat. "I'm fine." He closed his eyes for a moment and then started pushing himself up. "Did you see the other man?"

"Other man?" Blue eyes narrowed in concern and surveyed the area with a glance. But the sun had baked the garden lanes into dust and the tell tale signs of the struggle had obscured any other potential footprints. Shaking his head, he reached down to clasp d'Artagnan's arm and help him up, "We'll have to see if any of the outer guard saw anything."

"The King and Queen?" d'Artagnan rasped, fighting the urge to groan as he came to his feet, grateful for the solidity of Athos' hand at his elbow.

"Safe. The others will have them inside the Palace by now." Athos' eyes followed the curve of d'Artagnan's neck as the younger man rolled his shoulders and lingered on the red scrapes at his throat. "Aramis should look at that."

D'Artagnan shook his head; his attention was caught by the man he'd killed. "No need." The corpse lay sprawled on the ground where he'd pushed him off. Blood soaked an already filthy shirt and a ragged patched vest, making it impossible to tell what color the garments had been before the altercation. The still features were rugged, the nose many times broken and healed, and long black hair was bound at the back of his neck.

He was staring at the body so intently, Athos frowned at him. "Do you recognize him?" He moved closer to the body but still did not relinquish his hold on d'Artagnan's arm.

"For a moment," d'Artagnan paused, a gloved hand raising to pinch at the bridge of his nose before running through his hair. "For a moment, I thought it was someone else." He finally said. "But no, I don't recognize him."

With reluctance, he moved away from Athos' hand to reclaim his sword. "We should go check on their majesties." He wiped the blade on the pants of the dead man before sheathing it and looking up at Athos.

Athos narrowed his eyes at the younger man's curiously neutral expression but he saw no visible signs of serious injury on d'Artagnan and, now that he was up, he was moving easily enough. Even as Athos took a breath to ask another question, the other man spoke again, "What do you think: regular malcontent or someone with a mission?"

Distracted by the thought, Athos' mind immediately flipped back to their dead man and he frowned at the corpse, as if insulted it was labeled with the answer. "Can't be sure." He prodded the body with his boot and the frown turned into an outright scowl. "We'll have to look into this. Find out who he is." Swift hands patted over the belt and under the vest but there were no pouches or purses to be had.

Closer to the main path now, d'Artagnan crouched down to retrieve the discarded pistol. Just beyond it, a shine in the dust caught his eye and, in one smooth motion, he gathered up the pistol and what turned out to be a leather cord with a gold coin strung on it. Something dark passed over his face, too quickly to be seen in the shadow of the hedge. He strode further down the path in the direction he'd seen the second man run in and came to rest where it turned out into the larger park. There, just at the edge where the hard path met the taller grass, a single boot print marred the flower bed in between.

"And more importantly," d'Artagnan murmured to himself as hard eyes scanned the park for any sign of whoever had disturbed the peace of the morning, "Who he was with."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5/23 note: Chapters 1-3 have been edited for tense issues and word choice problems that were driving me batty on review. No significant plot changes were made.

The day blurs for d'Artagnan after the attack, exhaustion muting the colors of the garden as he and Athos make their way back to the Palace. The royal couple are indeed back inside, barred behind doors guarded by not only Aramis and Porthos but several of the Musketeers d'Artagnan vaguely recognized as have been serving on the Palace's perimeter guard that day.

Even as they arrive, the king's nearly hysterical shouts echo through the door, clear as a bell in the marble hallway, "I will not be threatened in my own home! Do something about it!"

Moments later, Captain Treville exits the room with a bow. His sharp eyes take in both d'Artagnan and Athos as they enter. "The assassin?"

"Dead. No indication of where he came from." Athos answers, though the dust and blood streaking d'Artagnan's leathers make it almost unnecessary. "But there was a second man. Did the outer guard see him?"

Treville scowled in a way that did not bode well for anyone involved. "No, they were focused on threats coming from without. They gave chase but lost him in the warrens. Did either of you get a good look at him?"

Athos turned to d'Artagnan but the younger man shook his head. "No," he croaked out, his abused throat protesting the effort. "He was already running by the time I had them in sight."

The sound of his voice had Aramis narrowing his eyes at him but d'Artagnan shook his head to forestall him moving forward. Treville's scowl hadn't faded. "We'll double the guard on the Palace for the next few days until we know if the remaining madman will try again. I'll go back to the Garrison and send two more squads for today." His scowl softened as he passed d'Artagnan and he clasped a hand on his shoulder, "Good job today." The Captain eyed the scrapes at his throat and the red skin around them heralding bruises to come. "It's nearly nightfall; get some rest." Eyebrow raised, he raked his gaze over the four, "Tomorrow, I don't want you on patrol. Go into the city. We have to know if this was an isolated incident or if we have a bigger problem on our hands. And keep this under wraps. We don't want riots or anyone else getting ideas."

Porthos cast a side eye at Aramis as they all nodded in acceptance of orders. Athos' eyes remained on d'Artagnan. As soon as Treville left them, Aramis moved to d'Artagnan, "What happened to your throat?"

D'Artagnan batted at Aramis' hands for a minute before a steely blue glare from Athos had him baring his throat for the medic. "Strangely, the would be assassin took offense to my getting in the way of his plans." His voice remained gravelly. "We struggled. I'm fine."

He couldn't suppress a flinch as Aramis' gloved hands brushed his throat and the medic frowned at what he took as a sign of pain. "If it's that painful, I should put a salve on it..."

D'Artagnan shook his head as he pulled away. "I'm fine." He pulled on the collar of the jacket until the red marks were mostly covered. Something about the unconscious movement made Athos' gaze narrow but d'Artagnan didn't notice. "It'll be dark soon." Athos searched his face but whatever he thought he'd seen was already gone as the younger man went on, "It sounds like we have plenty to do tomorrow."

Porthos scowled as the four fell in together to leave the Palace grounds. "We need information. I'll visit Flea t'morrow and see if they've 'eard anything at the Court."

"I may have a few sources," Aramis grinned slightly, cocking his dark head. "But I shall need to be... discrete."

"That should cover the local possibilities." Athos gave a rueful shake of his head. "If they weren't local, they must have gotten here somehow. We should check with the gatekeepers and the stables."

D'Artagnan licked his lips, "They avoided the perimeter guards and knew where the King would be picnicking in the garden. They must have gotten their information somewhere. Someone should check with the palace staff - see if anyone's been asking questions. I can do that while you cover the stables."

Athos quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "I dislike the idea of all of us splitting up." He mused. "But the idea has merit. And the sooner we find out exactly who was behind this..." Something about the idea bothered him but he couldn't see any real flaws in the plan. He turned stern eyes on his team. "Remember, the Captain said discrete. If you find anything suspicious, we'll regroup just past midday and go in strength. I don't want to tip our hand before we know more."

Porthos clapped his hand on Athos shoulder as he chuckled. "Don' worry so much, Athos."

Aramis chuffed as Athos scowled and he bumped Athos into d'Artagnan. "We have done this once or twice before. Discrete is practically my middle name."

Athos groaned, rubbing a gloved hand over his face, "You are not inspiring confidence here. Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, get whatever information you can without letting word get out what happened in the garden. And then we meet at the Garrison just past midday to regroup."


	5. Chapter 5

The cool night air was broken only by a ribbon of bright moonlight when Athos swung up onto the roof of the garrison after most of the regiment had gone to their posts or their rest. Most nights, he found the sight of Paris in the night to be beautiful - especially through a veil of wine. But in the wake of the day's events and starkly sober, the shadows and flickering torchlight seemed ominous, hiding secrets under their reach.

Despite the menacing air coming from the city, there was a shadow at the edge of the roof that drew Athos closer. D'Artagnan hadn't moved as he'd approached, just remained huddled at the edge like Athos could somehow overlook him, as if Athos wouldn't know that silhouette anywhere. "This is a strange type of resting," the older man said as he swung down to sit beside him.

D'Artagnan didn't look at him, didn't answer, just drew closer to the knees he had pulled into his chest. Deliberately, Athos settled himself beside him, pressing his shoulder against the other man's but taking care to keep his gaze on the city itself. And he waited.

After a few moments, d'Artagnan spoke, his voice still gravelly as he rested his forehead on his knees, "I tried, Athos." He shook his head and dark eyes raised to look out towards the Palace, away from Athos. "I've tried to remember but I was so focused on the threat and he was running away. I never saw his face."

Athos' eyes jerked back to d'Artgnan as he spoke. "D'Artagnan," He wasn't even sure where to begin. Whatever he'd thought he'd hear, that was not it. "Of course you were focused on the threat! You stopped the assassin. No one could have asked more of you."

A chuff of a laugh escaped the other man but Athos could not see his face beyond the fall of dark hair. "The King could ask more of me. The King expects more." His gloved hands flexed; his muscles felt tight and he heard the echo of old words in his ears.

Athos wanted to turn his head, force d'Artagnan to look at him, but he settled for squeezing his shoulder. "You saved His Majesty's life. A Musketeer has no higher duty." D'Artgnan still did not turn and Athos couldn't bring himself to remove his hand. "If it weren't for you, we would have been too late. And we wouldn't know there was a second man to search for."

Finally, d'Artagnan turned to look at him but his dark eyes were shadowed, like the bruises darkening at his throat, and Athos couldn't read the expression in them. "Athos," his voice was still ragged and it pulled something in Athos' gut. He willed himself to stay silent, willed d'Artagnan to keep going... But the Gascon exhaled slowly and he unfolded his legs in a deliberate motion. "You're right."

Instinct told Athos that was not what d'Artagnan had been going to say but the younger man was already standing. He reached a hand down and Athos grasped it although they both knew he didn't need the help. D'Artagnan pulled him up but Athos didn't let go. They stood there for a long moment, arms clasped at the forearm, blue eyes locked with brown. d'Artagnan's mouth opened and he took a breath.

A door slammed below in the barracks and the off color cursing of one of their brothers stumbling to bed crashed through the still night. D'Artagnan didn't spring away but his eyes fell and he moved back with precise movements. "I should get some rest."

Not for the first time Athos cursed the fact that he had no facility with words but d'Artagnan was already moving away and he conceded defeat. "Yes, we have much to do tomorrow and it will be hard enough to keep our inquiries quiet."

D'Artagnan didn't raise his eyes and spoke as he swung easily back down to the walkway. "I'm going to take my old neighbor from Lupiac with me to the Palace. He's in need of a position. I had meant to take him to one of the merchants caravans but it will make a good excuse for me to talk to the servants."

Athos nodded as he followed him down, possibly with less grace, but no more difficulty. "And I'm sure it would be well to have an old friend close by."

The other man turned towards the barracks, "One should keep one's friends close." The shadows of the hallway seemed to fold him in, "Good night, Athos." He was gone before Athos could respond.


	6. Chapter 6

The yard was somber when d'Artagnan came down; the morning fog still hanging thick in the air. With the guard around the palace doubled and guards at every gate to the city, the garrison was nigh on empty. The effect was eerie and chills raced up his spine as he walked.

Porthos looked strangely more dangerous out of his Musketeer leathers; d'Artagnan could see the tell tale bulge of a knife at his belt and the shadow of one at the top of his boot. He caught d'Artagnan's eye and grinned. "I'm bound for Court." He laughed a bit, waving down at himself and the ragtag montage of worn clothing and bits of leather he wore. "Flea wouldn't forgive me if I di'n't dress appropriately."

The sound of footsteps behind him had d'Artagnan turning, the muscles in his back clenching tight. Athos' eyebrow raised at the action as he approached but then he caught sight of d'Artagnan's throat behind the high collar and hissed instead. His gloved hand lifted d'Artagnan's chin, exposing the dark blotchy bruising surrounding red scrapes that looked angry even in the low light. His gloved finger tapped the Gascon's jaw gently, "Has Aramis seen this?"

Before d'Artagnan could speak, Porthos was there, frowning at the bruising he had missed when d'Artagnan approached, "No' this morning. 'e's already off talk to his lady friends."

The bigger man leaned over Athos' shoulder and it was too much, too penned in for d'Artagnan at this point. He skittered backwards, reaching for an apple to excuse the movement, "I. Am. Fine." His voice had lost much of the gravel of the day before with only a slight bit of harshness left to it that he hoped the others would take as annoyance. D'Artagnan took a deep breath as he took a bite of the apple, ignoring the way his stomach rolled in response, and forced a wry smile to his face. "You're a bunch of mother hens. It's just some bruising."

Athos gritted his teeth but the younger man was already moving and blue eyes followed his every move as he clearly readied himself to leave the Garrison. Porthos' dark eyes watched them both, eyebrow raised and something sardonic in his smile. "I'm off t' Court then."

Athos slanted a glance at Porthos and inclined his head in a nod. "Treville will almost certainly be at the Palace all day. We'll meet there after midday to share what we've found." Porthos nodded and moved to head out but Athos put a hand on his arm and turned to block d'Artagnan. "Remember, be careful. And discrete."

Porthos laughed and the Gascon dodged around Athos as the three walked towards the gates of the garrison. "Yes, mother hen." d'Artagnan said with mock solemnity. "We can manage discrete." The words were jovial but the expected grin was lacking and the discord of it made Athos all too aware of how long it had been since he'd seen that expression on d'Artagnan's face.

His blue eyes narrowed but the other two men had gone their separate ways into the fog still lying heavily on the street, disappearing from view in an instant. Athos' eyes caught upon the guardsman at the gate and he crossed the short distance between them. He cocked his head at the man, trying and failing to remember his name. "Who was on the garrison gate yesterday? Did anything unusual happen? Anyone out of the ordinary?"

"I was." The guard stroked his mustache as he considered, "But nothing unusual here. No one unexpected."

That wasn't surprising. It would take a truly foolish assassin to let himself be seen at the garrison for the King's own guard. He'd never anticipated finding anything significant here but he had to start somewhere. Athos scowled as he tried to catch a suspicion that seemed to hover just outside his reach. But whatever it was, it still eluded him. Thoughtful, Athos considered the guard again. "Were you on the gate the day before last as well?"

The guard smiled ruefully while gesturing to the thick wrappings around his foot in explanation, "I've been on the gate for a week, so yes."

"A friend came asking for d'Artagnan, a neighbor from Gascony." Athos didn't know what was making him ask but something in his gut prompted the question.

The guard frowned, "He did meet with someone. I don't know that I'd call him a friend." Sharp blue eyes focused on him, demanding more information. "It was a young man - maybe d'Artagnan's age - but ragged. They were out in the street so I couldn't hear what they said but they were tense. I wasn't close enough to see the other one's face but there was something... I don't know." His brow furrowed. "I can't be sure. There was no shouting; there was no violence. But for a moment, I'd swear d'Artganan was reaching for his sword. But then he sent him away. Haven't seen the other man since."

Athos was glowering by the time the guardsman finished, his blue eyes bright with anger. He didn't understand, couldn't understand why d'Artagnan had lied to them. Could this unknown stranger be involved in the attempt on the king? But no, Athos' thoughts spun back to that last bright day. He had no proof that d'Artagnan lied, or that this this unknown man was involved. D'Artagnan had never called him a friend, only a neighbor. It had been Athos himself, he recalled, who had called the man a friend, with something he recognized now as a bit of jealousy. D'Artagnan simply hadn't corrected him. 

Athos refused to believe this had anything to do with the attempt on the King's life. He would have to talk to d'Artagnan. But later. For now, he had to speak with the guards on the outer gates and the livery stables. The best way to put these questions to rest would be answers. And Athos would find them. One way or another.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for comments and kudos! They are very much appreciated!

The Speckled Cockerel was no more welcoming in the pale morning light then it had been at night. Not that d'Artagnan could tell it was daylight anymore once he passed over the threshold. The windows were darkened, either on purpose or by neglect, so the inside remained as dense and murky as it had been in the middle of the night. D'Artagnan's nose wrinkled as he paused to look around the room; the smell hadn't improved any either. 

But the crowd had thinned to only a few souls and spotting Jehan and Julianna by the meager fire was the work of moments. The small bag between then was faded and patched over so many times that there was nothing left of the original fabric. Jehan was massaging Julianna's mangled fingers near the heat and there was something in the care of his movements that made d'Artagnan's chest ache. He paused midstep for a moment, feeling the lack of his friends at his side keenly.

But there was no time to waste. D'Artagnan shook off the moment and moved towards the fireplace, deliberately letting his footsteps sound through the room to announce his presence. Both siblings started, Julianna jerking her hand back, and d'Artagnan was astonished to recognize the depth of desperation and fear that showed on both of their faces in that one unguarded moment. He ran a gloved hand over his face to steady himself, feeling it brush against the stubble he had forgotten to take care of that morning, letting the stiff rasp of it ground him.

"D'Artganan," Julianna spoke first but despite her attempts to compose herself, her voice wavered. "We thought you were coming later. You haven't..." She can't even finish the sentence and d'Artagnan feels an irrational flush of shame when he realizes she fears that he's changed his mind. Jehan's face had already morphed into a familiar glare, embarrassment giving way to anger in moments.

D'Artaganan shook his head, letting the dark locks mask his face from them. "No, I'm here early but I haven't changed my mind. I thought it would be better to head out early." He heard a faint crunch as his hands clenched in his gloves but, at this point, no act of will was going to get his tense muscles to relax. Nor could he keep the bitterness out of his tone, "Unless you have other plans?" 

Juliana's cheeks burned and she shook her head as both siblings stood, gathering their meager possessions. "No, no! We're ready now."

Once they were standing, they paused as if to let d'Artagnan lead but his very being revolted at the idea of having them at his back. It was too uncomfortably close to his nightmares of late, to his memories. To cover his discomfort, he bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off of the siblings, with a sardonic twist to his mouth, "After you." 

 

D'Artagnan set a swift pace through the narrow winding Paris streets to discourage conversation and he felt relief when he saw the Palace's smaller gate, meant for merchants and servants, in the distance. But the relief was short lived as Jehan, tired of winding through street after dusty street of squat dull houses, jerked back against the alley wall. "Where are you taking us? We're going in circles and we've gotten nowhere. I swear mongrel, if you're leading us into harm, I will find your commanding officer and tell him all about..."

Before he could finish, d'Artagnan's already fragile hold on his control snapped. With a smooth movement, almost too fast to see, despite his fatigue, he had his main gauche at Jehan's throat and his sword out warding Julianna from interfering. Sheer rage nearly vibrated through his frame as he pressed the steel blade to Jehan's skin and hissed, "I'm not smaller than you anymore, Jehan. And you don't outnumber me five to one anymore." He could no longer tell if the growl in his voice was from the bruising on his throat or from his own fury, but the words felt as if they were torn out of him. "This mongrel is your only chance at a future. It is only by my honor that you had someplace to sleep last night. And you want to blackmail me?" He took a ragged breath and his next words rang with fury, "I am a kings' guard. I am a Musketeer!" 

Dark eyes burned like coals and Jehan was pale as the cold metal pressed against the delicate skin of his neck. A small bead of blood pooled on top of the steel and the sight of it sent a wave of weariness over d'Artagnan, his rage draining away, leaving him hollowed in its wake. He stepped back from both siblings deliberately, careful to keep both of them in front of him as he sheathed his sword, pulling together the ragged threads of his control. He took a deep breath and then another, lowering the main gauche slightly, forcing his body to forget the memories of agony and fear that nearly overwhelmed him.

When he spoke again, his voice remained low and sharp as his steel had been, "This is not Lupiac, Jehan." d'Artagnan's eyes narrowed and his heart stuttered as he laid out his biggest bluff yet, "I am the King's Champion and you are a landless peasant in rags. You can say whatever you want." He sheathed the main gauche, in part to hide the panic the very thought gave him. Dismay sat like lead in his stomach and his mind lost no time in presenting him with the image of the disgrace that would occur if Jehan called his bluff. His friends turning away from him as he is exiled, Athos' callused hands removing his pauldon, sharp disappointment in his blue eyes... D'Artagnan swallowed down a wave of nausea.

As soon as d'Artagnan had sheathed his swords, Julianna moved to her brother, glaring at him furiously. She placed a restraining hand on his chest before turning towards d'Artagnan, "He didn't mean it. That would be poor repayment indeed given that you are helping us." She scowled at Jehan, who remained pale and still against the wall. Julianna thumped his chest once and Jehan nodded belatedly, one hand touching the small wound at his throat. 

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed at them both, his expression unreadable, but he gave Julianna a curt nod, "Let's just get this over with." 

It wasn't until they were walking through the gate, the guard waving d'Artagnan past with a nod, that Jehan realized where d'Artagnan was taking them. "The palace?! Why are you taking us there?"

The desperation in his voice made the corner of d'Artagnan's lip turn up in something far more akin to a snarl than a smile. "Did you miss the part where the Musketeers are the King's guard? I have a few contacts in the palace." The expression vanished as if it had never been, leaving the young man's face cold and hard. "But don't worry. You'll never be alone in the palace. And you won't ever be anywhere near their Majesties." Despite the phrasing, they were clearly conditions and the siblings nodded mutely in agreement.

D'Artagnan led them into the servants wing of the castle. The air was hanging heavy and humid when he stopped politely in front of an open door. It took only moments before a burst of steam parted to reveal a giant of a woman with curly hair tied up in a rag, the streaks of grey hardly visible in the red strands, chapped hands on her hips the moment she saw the Musketeer. "D'Artagnan! What in the world are you doing here? I swear if you mess up my laundry this time..." The warning was stern but affectionate. 

Her tone made something in d'Artagnan's features soften, though a smile remained out of his grasp. "Madame Marie, I swear I am not chasing anyone through your laundry this time." He stepped closer to her and tilted his head, trying for charming though he felt anything but. "Why? Have you seen any ruffians lately that would need chasing?"

The laundress tilted her head, as if sensing there was more to the question, but inclined her head. "No, and if they know what's good for them, anyone looking for trouble will stay out of my laundry. But there's been no one here outside of my girls and the footmen, and all of those my usual troubles, nothing new."

D'Artagnan nodded his thanks as he turned to show more clearly the siblings, "Do you have room for someone new?" He motioned Julianna forward. A voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Aramis chided him for not holding out his hand to bring her forward but his stomach threatened to lose the small apple he'd managed to eat that morning at the idea of letting her, either of them, touch him again, even in such a small way. 

Julianna moved forward, looking awkward in a way d'Artagnan had never seen her. In his memories, she was always imperious, scalding, and he was having a hard time reconciling that with the woman before him. He moved back and inclined his head towards Madame Marie before speaking very carefully, with deliberate wording, "This is Julianna. She's from Gascony. She has come to Paris looking for work."

Madame Marie could hear the deliberation in his words, could hear too what he wasn't saying, and she cast sharp eyes over the other woman in response. She could see the fear in her eyes, the shorn blond hair, the ragged clothing. When her eyes landed on the mangled hands, some softness crept back into her expression. "I could use another girl at the vats. It's hard work but it don't take much skill, if you know what I mean. No fine work. And there's room in the servant's quarters, though you'll share it with three other girls."

Julianna was already nodding, gratitude coming over her face. "That..." She stopped to take a breath, "Thank you." She turned to hug Jehan but then paused and looked to d'Artagnan, "But Jehan..."

The Musketeer looked at her impassively, "There are no men in the laundry. I have a different place in mind for him." For a moment, she looked worried again but it passed and she moved as if thank him. Alarm shot across d'Artagnan's face and he jerked back, further away from her, and Julianna pulled back out of embarrassment and shame. After an awkward moment, she turned to hug her brother.

For his part, d'Artagnan gave Madame Marie a short bow, refusing to meet her gaze. "Thank you, Madame." He turned to leave, gesturing Jehan ahead of him before pausing. "If there are any problems, or if anyone comes about who looks... unusual or asking questions, send a runner to the Garrison."

There were undercurrents in his voice that made the laundress pause. "I have heard," she hesitated but d'Artagnan had focused all of his attention on her, "There were a few ruffians, beggars I think, outside the gardens after the morning bells some... five days ago now. But from what I heard, they moved on before anyone could take offense. Two of them, with dark hair. I only recall it because the girls were laughing about the colors of the clothes on the one. Rather flamboyant for rags."

The Musketeer waited but she offered nothing more and he nodded his thanks as she bustled Julianna into her domain. For a moment, he wanted to call her back. He didn't want to be alone with Jehan. He knew it was ridiculous - he could take Jehan apart in moments and the man wasn't even armed - but he could not convince himself that Jehan was not a threat for anything, not even in light of the mulishly grateful look the man was giving him now. 

Without waiting for Jehan to speak, d'Artagnan herded him back through the winding hallways and through the kitchens. He kept a sharp eye out but the bustle of the palace went through its familiar routine and no one seemed out of place. It didn't take him long to locate the senior footman where he was reviewing the presentation of the footmen who were about to take their posts for the afternoon. A few moments was enough to ascertain that the footman who Porthos had so unceremoniously ousted from the garden a few days before had indeed been sent away in disgrace and that position was open. 

Throat burning and weary down to his very bones, d'Artagnan managed to present Jehan on the same terms as he had Julianna, while at the same time determining that the footmen too had noted the "beggars" outside the castle garden several days before. They hadn't been there long enough that anyone had needed to chase them off though so no one had seen them in any detail. 

After the discussion, d'Artagnan turned back to Jehan, his eyes so dark they were nearly black. "I will not do this again, Jehan." Though he spoke quietly, d'Artagnan's voice was harsh with overuse and his hand rested on his sword hilt, almost casually, as if they were having a pleasant conversation. "If I hear anything, anything at all, about you making trouble..."

Jehan almost looked contrite as he interrupted, "You won't. I swear it." The other man looked down at his boots for a moment before taking a deep breath. "Forgive me." The words hit d'Artagnan like a blow, startling him out of his deliberately casual pose. Jehan hurries on, "You didn't have to... I know that I..." He gave up the effort as hopeless and settled for a plea, "Forgive me."

Fury kindled behind d'Artagnan's eyes, burning away some of his fatigue, "Forgive you?" He couldn't even comprehend the idea. Remembered pain lit up his nerves like wildfire, as sharp and brutal as the times it was first inflicted. He caught himself kneading the scar tissue under his ribs and forced his hands down. The scars on his legs itched and pulled and his bones ached with remembered agony. Distance, distract, downplay. There are people watching. Don't give yourself away now... 

D'Artagnan breathed low and slow once, then again, swallowing down the feelings. He forced himself back to a casual pose, a gloved hand disheveling his dark hair. "We're both going to have to settle for me forgetting you." Another breath and then flashing dark eyes focused on him, their intensity not one whit diminished by the circles underneath them, as d'Artagnan leaned in, making a private space between them. "Don't give me cause to remember you again, Jehan."

Shame painted the other man's features and he nodded. "I won't." He looked away, unable to bear the look in d'Artagnan's eyes. "Thank you, for this." He gathered himself. "I had expected you to kill me. If not at the gate, then after you settled Julianna. I had thought the price for your help, if you gave it at all, would be my life, given all that happened before." Jehan waved a hand at the activity going on around them. "I had never expected this."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, desperately holding on to the threads of his control. He ran his fingers over his pauldron, feeling the fleur de lis imprinted there like a message. "Enough." He wanted Athos by his side almost like it was an ache all its own. Wanted that quiet sure strength and warmth. The emotion that had filled him drained out of him like water from a broken pot, leaving him cold in its wake. He didn't have the energy to sustain it right now and someone was trying to kill the King. "Enough. I have work to do." It was mid day already and the others would be waiting. D'Artagnan put all the finality in his voice that he could muster, "Goodbye, Jehan."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping for another short chapter tonight. Based on my outline, there's only a handful to go after that - maybe 4. Thank you for the comments and kudos. They mean a lot to me.

By the time d'Artagnan reached the hall before the royal apartments, whatever brightness had been in the day had been leeched away by storm clouds. He could see Athos leaning against the wall, arms across his chest, and he felt a distant fondness as he recognized the irritation on Athos' face from twenty feet away. It made something deep in d'Artagnan's chest ease. Relief flashed briefly over the older man's face as he saw d'Artagnan and he pushed himself off of the wall. Before d'Artagnan reached him, Aramis and Porthos strode into the hall from the garden and Athos scowled at them all, "You are all late. I said midday not near dusk." 

Porthos grinned and jerked a thumb at Aramis as the four gathered together, "Had to collect this layabout." He was back in his Musketeer leathers, his pauldron once more secure on his shoulder. 

Aramis' answering grin was unrepentant. "You did say to be discrete, Athos. Discretion takes... time." The Spaniard's dark eyes fairly twinkled at the statement for a moment before sobering. "Unfortunately, discretion gained little in this case. There are rumors of discontent, but there are always rumors and nothing to distinguish these from any others." He ran a thumb down the line of his beard. "There has been talk, more persistent than usual, that one of the court nobles has decided to overreach and was seeking a more permanent regime change. But nothing specific, no clues as to who it could be."

Narrow blue eyes looked at Porthos who shrugged. "Flea says there's been more thefts lately not done by the court but all small stuff. No weapons, nothing big. No one unusual has come around 'at's been noticed." 

Athos ran a hand over his face and sighed, "Equally nothing at the stables and gates." He could not remember the last time he wanted a drink so badly. 

Shifting his weight slightly, d'Artagnan pressed his shoulder against Athos'. The contact was little enough, but it warmed him who had been cold for days now, and eased the lines of strain on Athos' face. "It may be nothing," he rasped, "but the footmen and some of the servant girls saw two men outside the garden less than a week ago. They took them for beggars." The words felt thick in his throat but he went on. "Two men, both dark haired. No other real details other than that one of them was wearing colorful rags. They were out there long enough to be noticed by several servants but not so long that they had to be removed."

"Hm," Athos mused, "Dark hair, colorful rags. The dead one fits that description, such as it is. Anything else that might identify them?" D'Artagnan shook his head and Athos practically growled with frustration. 

Aramis' arched a dark eyebrow, "So we have two dark haired assassins, one stupid enough to wear notable clothing, and rumors that one of the court is behind it." His hands worried at the strap across his chest absently. He tilted his head at Athos, "Perhaps we should attend court tomorrow afternoon. See if this noble's discontent shows itself in company."

Athos inclined his head in response. "I'll talk to Treville - he can propose to the King that he have a full audience. It does seem to be our best lead - we have nothing to identify the assassins themselves."

D'Artagnan's brow furrowed and he bit the side of his lip. "Porthos," His dark eyes looked stormy but his voice, while rough, was level. "You said Flea thinks there has been more thefts?"

The bigger man looked confused at the question but answered readily enough, "Petty t'eft. Small things, food, cloth. Nothing that could be used as a weapon."

D'Artagnan dragged a hand down his face before rubbing at his neck. "I have... a hunch." He shook his head, letting his dark hair fall forward in a gesture that was starting to feel like cowardice. "It's nothing certain. But it should be checked out." He swallowed thickly and it felt like gravel in his throat.

All three musketeers were looking at him with varied expressions of confusion. D'Artagnan looked at the garden, seeing that the gray of the skies had finally given way to rain. "Have to go in the morning. It won't take long. If I'm right, it won't be far." He cannot bring himself to look back at his friends, cannot offer anything more. D'Artagnan dragged a hand down his face again, closing his eyes against the questions he can almost feel in the air, and felt himself sway slightly.

Athos' hand is up and gripping his arm in moments, the pressure bringing him back to himself. He steadied himself and offered a quirk of his lips that could almost pass for a smile, but he could feel the emptiness of it on his face. Athos still did not let go of his arm, as if he knew the contact was the only thing grounding d'Artagnan. He could not bring himself to pull away.

They waited for him to say more but he shook his head, "I don't want to say more. There are people who would suffer if I'm wrong..." Athos' brow is as thunderous as the weather but he can feel fine tremors in d'Artagnan's arm under his hand. Porthos opened his mouth but caught the sharp shake of Athos' head and closed it with the question unasked.

Aramis glanced between the two of them, catching the fierce scrutiny in Athos' gaze, then returned his eyes to d'Artagnan. The edges of the bruising at his throat that Aramis can see above his collar have started to yellow, leaving a sickly stain on his skin, but the scrapes have scabbed over. It's the most vibrant thing about their usually fiery Gascon at this point. D'Artaganan is pale beneath the olive tone of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes have become hollows. Aramis frowns deeply as he reaches forward to pull down the other man's collar, ignoring d'Artagnan's flinch. "It doesn't look infected but you look horrible. When did you last eat?"

"Breakfast?" the question in d'Artagnan's voice made Aramis' eyebrow arch again. 

Porthos looked no less skeptical. "Are you calling that scrawny apple you ate t'is mornin' breakfast, d'Art?"

They'd encircled him and Athos felt a twitch in the other man's arm. Almost like he wanted to flee. He who Athos had never known to back down from anything. He wanted to force d'Artagnan to talk but he knew that would never work. The Gascon was the most stubborn man he'd ever known. Worry gnawed at his stomach and it made him more stern than he'd intended, "Enough." He didn't let go of d'Artagnan's arm but used his other hand to rub at a rapidly forming headache. "It appears we can do nothing more today," he shot a sharp look at d'Artagnan who shook his head in reply.

"I'd never be able to find them in the rain or the dark." The words were almost a sigh; exhaustion bowing his shoulders.

"Fine," Athos says shortly before glaring at them all. "The King won't be holding court again till afternoon tomorrow. We appear to have some time." 

Aramis caught the thread of thought without pause, falling in at d'Artaganan's side as Athos used his grip to propel the younger man forward. "Well then, plenty of time for us to get some dinner and some rest before we go out searching."

D'Artagnan tried to protest as he was herded along between them, Porthos at his back, but his friends ignored his protests. The streets blurred around him as they left the Palace; time slipping away around him. But Athos' hand was warm on his arm as was Aramis' presence at his shoulder. Porthos is solid as a rock behind him. He let that warmth, that presence, tether him and carry him along, knowing in his bones that it could not last.


	9. Chapter 9

In short order, d'Artagnan found himself back at the garrison, ensconced at their usual table, and the feeling of deja vu made him dizzy. Or maybe it was lack of food catching up with him.

Aramis plunked a bowl of stew in front of him with a trencher of bread. The Spaniard was glaring at him in a way that boded ill for the next time he needed mending and tapped the stew with a knife blade, "Eat. Every bite. It should be easiest on your throat. When we're done, I'll put a salve on it that should get rid of the remaining swelling." He thumped onto the bench across from d'Artagnan with his own plate, Porthos sliding in beside.

It was not until Athos slid in beside him and gave him an arch look of his own that d'Artagnan sighed in defeat and picked up the spoon. He couldn't remember the last time he had an appetite. But Porthos eyed him shrewdly and launched into describing the newer characters that took up residence in the Court of Miracles since their last visit and d'Artagnan let the sound of his friends' voices wash over him. He toyed with the food more than ate it but it was still more than he'd managed to get down in days. A weary lassitude crept over him as the warm food settled in his stomach. 

It lowered his guard enough that he started when Athos spoke, eyeing him as he took a long pull from his second bottle of the night, "What about your fellow Gascon?" His tone was casual but something in it sharpened the others' attention as well. "You had said you would be taking him with you as a guise for your questions."

Deliberately careless, D'Artagnan took the last swallow from his own wine glass and stared at the dregs for a moment, the cup hanging from his hand. "It made a good excuse for asking questions. There was an opening for a lower footman. And his sister is taking a trial run in the laundry." 

"Sister?" Aramis perked up with a leer that quickly turned to a frown when d'Artagnan flinched. "Is she that ugly?" He was almost comically disappointed.

That surprised a short bitter laugh out of d'Artagnan and he stole Athos' wine bottle for a swallow before putting it back before the other man. "I think she'd knife you if you tried." 

"Sounds spirited," Aramis grinned - though whether at d'Artagnan's description or the affront on Athos' face as he grumbled but subsided with his wine, d'Artagnan wasn't sure. Then his gaze turned speculative as d'Artagnan shredded a chunk of bread into the stew he'd stopped eating, "Or is she perhaps more than a friend?"

D'Artagnan winced at the very idea but he didn't raise his eyes. "I have never said they were friends. They were neighbors, displaced by the burning and the famine that followed." His tone was as distant as his gaze, darkened by more than sorrow.

Athos' blue eyes sharpened, "And yet you found them positions at the Palace." He had gone very still. 

The tone in his voice brought d'Artagnan's eyes up to meet him with a huff of breath. "Jehan has a litany of sins but he has never been a traitor. He hasn't the brains for it." The words were contemptuous. D'Artagnan threw down the remainder of his bread, giving up on even the appearance of eating. "Besides, he's a terrible shot. And Juliana..." 

"The sister?" D'Artagnan couldn't tell which one of them had asked but it hardly mattered. He nodded in response, "She was there when LeBarge's men came through. Their father was of some import in the village; she must have fought him. She would never have believed they would hurt her." The imperious girl in his memory had always thought her family should have precedence in all things. The only time he had thought otherwise... D'Artagnan shook his head to clear away the memories he could see encroaching on the edge his vision. "He mangled her fingers. They set badly. She can barely hold a spoon much less a weapon and whatever spirit she had is broken."

Athos hated that he had to ask, but their primary duty was to protect the King, "You are certain?"

"Yes." The word dropped between them like a boulder and d'Artagnan pushed himself up from the table. Athos put a hand on his arm as if to stop him, and the other man slumped, hands still on the table, head hanging down between his arms like he could no longer bear the weight of keeping it upright. "I'm tired, Athos." 

The low tone of his voice was so weary, so utterly beyond bearing, it hit Athos in the gut like a gunshot. D'Artagnan took a deep shuddering breath, visibly pulling himself together and forcing himself to straighten. Desolate eyes met Athos' gaze as if there was nothing else in the world. "I swear to you, on my honor, that whatever else Jehan is capable of, he is not involved in the attempt to assassinate the King."

The older man gave d'Artagnan a slight nod but it was Aramis who spoke, trying to lighten the tension. "You should get some rest. We'll have to leave early if we are going to investigate this hunch of yours and get back in time for court."

"We?"

Porthos and Aramis both looked affronted at the question. As if there had been any doubt. "Of course," Aramis said as tossed a small jar to d'Artagnan with a gesture at his throat. "All for one, after all."

"Can't let you 'ave all the fun." Porthos added with a sly wink.

Athos' gaze hadn't left d'Artagnan since he'd risen from the table and he could feel the push of it, like Athos was willing him to know, to believe, something. But he was too tired to read whatever it was and could only mumble an acknowledgment before heading up to his quarters.

Once there, D'Artagnan managed to remove his weapons and his leathers but that was it. He fell onto the bed fully clothed, sparing a thought only to pray that the exhaustion would be enough to keep him from dreaming. 

It was not.

The sun was shining brightly and the heat sucked whatever moisture there had been out of the dusty road. He was running, always running. D'Artagnan knew he was dreaming when he saw the fields - the grain rolling like waves in a way he hadn't seen in years. A way he'd never see again.

It was disorienting because he couldn't see over the grain. He'd not had his growth spurt till his sixteenth year and in his dream, he was once again the awkward boy. Fierce but gawky as a young colt. He kept on running, looking for a flash of long golden hair. He was supposed to be meeting someone. And then suddenly dread filled him. He could hear snatches of the shouting behind him and it spurred him to run ever faster - no longer running to but away. "...Mongrel.." "Put you down like a dog!" "...mother..." "Wait until we catch you!"

His lungs burned like they had in his memory, but the road never ended, and all the air knocked out of him in a rush as his foot caught a rock, slamming him into the ground. D'Artagnan scrambled to get up but it was too late and they were on him. Though in real life there had never been more than five, in his dream it felt like multitudes. He felt the searing pain in his chest as one of his ribs gave way under the onslaught of their boots; the cloying coppery taste of blood on his tongue after one of them caught him in the jaw. 

The dream blended one incident into another until d'Artagnan could no longer tell when one stopped and another started. He could only remember the pain. The dull thud of boots into his side, the smack of fists meeting flesh, and later, once they were older, the bright gleam of metal. He felt the sharp kiss of steel against his legs as he was surrounded on all sides. Again and again, like a lash, the metal bit into his skin, striping his clothes with blood until rage and terror and desperation blinded him and d'Artagnan bolted up in the bed, biting down on his fist to muffle a shout. 

Great shuddering gasps of air shook his frame as he sat there, eyes wide as he pulled himself back under control. He focused his entire being on steady calm breaths until the shaking stopped. D'Artagnan wiped his hands over his face, ignoring the wetness under his fingers and the fine tremor that he still couldn't quell. He leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, telling himself just to breathe. Just keep breathing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a day later than planned - fell asleep on the couch last night - but here it is. I hope everyone enjoys. Thanks again for comments and kudos! They are very very much appreciated.  
> There's also a detailed author's note at the end which took me nearly as long as the chapter itself.

The others were dressed and in the yard with the first hint of dawn. D'Artagnan was no where to be seen and, for a moment, Athos' breath caught in his chest in dismay at the thought that the younger man had left without them despite it all. Before it could turn into betrayal, the Gascon came into the yard and his breath caught for a different reason.

D'Artagnan was dressed and armed, though he'd left his jacket open and his shirt laces loose in a way that seemed too deliberate to be anything but intentional. He hadn't bothered to shave and the dark shadow of stubble along his jaw and lip gave him a darker, more dangerous, air. The night's rest had done little to alleviate the dark circles under his eyes and there was something untethered, almost wild, in his gaze. He walked as if braced for a blow, brittle and strong all at once. Athos had to cross his arms over his chest to quell the urge to touch him. Or shake him. He wasn't sure which.

Aramis eyed the tension between the two men warily but it was Porthos who decided to break it. "So where we going, d'Art?" Aramis gave him a look at the deliberately laconic tone, tossing a breakfast roll at d'Artagnan with a pointed look and an arched eyebrow. The command was obvious.

"Outside of Paris," d'Artagnan said obliquely as he took a pointed bite, leaning against the rough wood of the table. "We'll have to go by horseback."

"That's very specific." Aramis said with a wry smile.

"I told you," d'Artagnan sighed, a look of irritation passing briefly over his face. "This is a hunch. Just something I wanted to investigate. It may be nothing." He pushed off the table with a bit of a glare. "I can go scout it and come back for you if I find anything."

Porthos snorted and clapped the younger man on the back, "Can't have that." He grinned as they started walking towards the stables. "Who knows what kind of trouble you'd get into without us?"

"Yes," Aramis said with a wicked grin as he slung his arms over both of their shoulders. "You can't keep all the trouble to yourself. We like trouble too."

The younger man felt a familiar bump at his shoulder as Athos fell in beside him. There was something in his gaze that sparked something like hope in his gut. Almost he could believe it was going to be ok, that this wasn't going to be the end of everything. Almost.

__

Once mounted, d'Artagnan took the lead without comment. He lead them directly towards the North gate and immediately went off the road to the northwest. Athos raised an eyebrow at the others, who shrugged. There were villages within a short ride but they were all further south or west. The course d'Artagnan had set was heading for the woods northwest of the city.

It wasn't long before Athos realized that d'Artagnan was following a nearly invisible path through the forest, taking them to different clearings inside the wooded border. He kept a sharp eye out but whatever d'Artagnan was looking for, he hadn't found it in the first two clearings and they moved on quickly.

Apparently the third time was a charm though because, shortly thereafter, d'Artagnan straightened in his saddle as he reined his horse in with a practiced touch. His mouth tightened as he surveyed the path, though none of the others could see anything to warrant the stop. Stranger still, d'Artagnan started to shrug out of his jacket as they came up beside him.

In his shirt sleeves, he slanted a look at the others, dark eyes inscrutable, and a set to his mouth that looked grim as he slung his jacket in front of his saddle, the pauldron tucked inside, invisible. "We can't go in as Musketeers. We'll get nothing." He offered nothing more, going back to scanning the woods around them.

"Go where?" Porthos grumbled, but he did it while he removed his jacket, slinging it over his horse as well.

Aramis cocked his head, but obligingly detached his pauldron and put it in a saddlebag. "I can't decide if all this mystery is exciting or irritating."

For a long moment, Athos looked at d'Artagnan steadily, blue eyes piercing. D'Artagnan didn't flinch, but there was a mute sadness in his eyes that Athos didn't understand but wanted to fix. His pauldron too went into his saddlebag with an incline of his head that lightened the look in d'Artagnan's eyes.

"This way," the Gascon said softly, gratitude in his tone. He led them off the path, following signs they couldn't read. It wasn't long before the trees gave way to another clearing and d'Artagnan dismounted to walk his horse forward, with the others following his lead. Because this clearing wasn't empty.

A handful of roughly covered wagons were in a loose circle inside the large clearing. A half dozen raven haired women were clearly tending to their daily chores in peasant blouses and skirts overlaid with colorful scraps of fabric. Twice that number of children raced around a handful of guttering campfires under the watchful eye a few old crones while older men in loose breeches and colorful if ragged vests tended to the horses and goats tethered between the wagons. At the arrival of the Musketeers into the clearing, every one of them stopped.

Aramis sucked in a breath as he took in the scene, "Gitain! But they were expelled a decade ago!"

D'Artagnan flinched and several of the dark eyes turned their way narrowed. "Aramis, be quiet," he hissed.

A dark haired man with swarthy skin who could not be called young with any truthfulness came over to them with a hard set to his face. "What do you want?" His vest was a patchwork of colors, stitched together artfully to make desperation look like choice. Loose pants tucked into worn boots but while the handle of the knife at his waist was tarnished with age, none of them doubted it would be sharp.

Porthos glared back at him with narrowed eyes and d'Artagnan shouldered in front of him and Aramis before it could deteriorate more. "Information, that's all," the younger man said hastily, holding out a placating hand, though not, Athos noted with pride, his sword hand which rested easily on his scabbard.

"There is nothing for you here." The man continued to glare at them, his arms folded across his chest. The children had disappeared, as had the younger women.

The whole scenario was grating on Athos like a poorly woven shirt and he surveyed the encampment with narrowed eyes but it was clear that no one else would even speak to them. For all that they had removed their pauldrons, they were still outsiders. "Have any men left your camp lately?

The other man scoffed, "Men leave the camp everyday, stupid gadjo." He glared at them, dark eyes glittering with suspicion. "Why do you care?"

Irritated, Athos opened his mouth to tell him who they were but d'Artagnan stepped in front of him as well, lifting up the coin necklace they had found at the scene. "Two men were begging in the streets of Paris last week. One of them was wearing this and a vest rather like yours." He held the necklace up high and the Musketeers saw several of the remaining people in the camp glance at it.

The man's face tightened mulishly and they could all see the refusal coming before he spoke it. Porthos stepped up with a snarl, using his height to his full advantage, but d'Artagnan was no longer paying attention to them. He let the necklace spin in his grip, the light glinting off the gold coin, as his eyes roamed over the camp.

After a moment, he caught the necklace up in his hand, darting around the man in front of him and over to the nearest campfire. The old woman whose eyes he'd caught, looked at him impassively, her one eye caught in a perpetual squint. Her steel grey hair hung in a braid at her back and a scarf that was once a rich royal blue, but now the color of forget me nots, draped around her neck. D'Artagnan inclined his head, waiting a respectful moment for her to waive off the man, before sitting besides her and looking into the fire. "You know this necklace."

She slanted a look at him before turning back to stirring her pot. "I have never seen it before." The metal bangles and artfully etched cuffs on her wrists made soft chime noises as she moved.

"And yet, if we were to look, I am sure there is a woman of this clan whose galb is missing a coin. And you know who." He stared determinedly into the flames and so did not see her momentary surprise.

She mastered herself quickly. "I am merely an old woman. I know nothing. And there are no clans in France anymore - not since the last expulsion." She gave a bitter huff. "The clans were dragged out of France like everywhere and those who remained are scattered."

"You are the Phuri Dae of the Kalderash clan." D'Artagnan's voice was implacable; it was not a question. He could sense his friends behind him, not allowed to sit at the fire but close enough to hear. He was exhausted beyond measure at this point and the feeling that this was the end spread like a void inside him. He didn't look back, just kept staring into the fading fire.

The old woman gave him an arch look then narrowed her eyes in suspicion, "Who are you to know this? You know our ways and our words." She looked back towards their horses to where they had entered the clearing, "You read our patteron to find us. No gadjo knows these things." She looked him over more carefully, taking in his olive skin and dark hair again before sucking in a breath.

Before she could speak, d'Artagnan interrupted, "I am a King's Musketeer." It was almost a reminder, a mantra in and of itself. His eyes fell to the ground between his feet and he licked his lips for a moment before he continued, "But my mother..." He straightened his shoulders and looked the old woman in the eye. "My mother was Lillai of the Lovari clan."

The old woman snorted, "Horse traders and star readers the lot of them but of the People all the same."

D'Artagnan dangled the coin necklace again. "The man who wore this tried to kill the king. I killed him for it." The woman blanched but he continued. "He was not alone."

Her hand flew to her heart, as if to make sure it still beat. It did not keep her hand from shaking. But this time, she peered closer at the necklace - hissing as she spotted the blood on the leather. "Mahrim." A bitter half smile quirked d'Artagnan's lips but he said nothing. She brought her fingers up but was careful not to actually touch the necklace. "It belonged to Milosh."

Her tribesman shouted at her words but Porthos placed a large hand on his chest to keep him from interfering. D'Artagnan and the old woman ignored them all as she continued. "He was a vain peacock - took that coin from his sweetheart, even after she'd no longer have him. His parents were killed like dogs two years ago. Murdered by gadjos who did not want to pay for his father's metal. And no justice done because murder of the Roma is no murder to gadjos." She closed her eyes against the sight of the necklace. "He blamed the expulsion and the king. It wasn't enough for him that we have made our way back; he wanted more. When he could find no support within the clan, he started talking to outsiders in the city. He bragged about his new rich friend and left us six months back saying he was going to make a name for himself." She shook her head harshly. "He was young and stupid. He never understood how easily expulsion and exile get turned into extermination."

Desperation burned in her eyes as she looked back up at d'Artagnan, "But I swear to you, he was alone of my people. No one else went with him. He went with the outsider and never returned."

D'Artagnan clenched his jaw. "What do you know about this outsider?"

"Nothing!" The old woman insisted, bracelets clanging as she held up her hands in protestation.

Dark eyes gazed narrowly at her. "I don't believe you. You are too canny to let one of yours fall in with outsiders without finding out who."

She held his gaze but only for a moment. "I set Pesha to keep an eye on him as he went into the city." A sharp glance and a jerk of her chin and a small boy appeared. "Tell this man what you saw when you followed Milosh the last time, Pesha."

The boy looked at her uncertainly for a moment but she nodded. "He went into the city, to a tavern. A rich man's carriage came but I couldn't see who was inside. Milosh got in and they went away."

D'Artagnan thought for a moment, "How did you know it was a rich man's carriage?"

The boy scoffed, "It had those pictures on the side, the ones all the rich carriages have."

"A coat of arms," d'Artagnan murmured. "What did it look like?"

"It was blue, with a gold lion on it." d'Artagnan heard a noise behind him and knew that one of the others recognized it. He looked hard at the boy for another moment but the boy clearly had nothing more to offer.

D'Artagnan let the necklace fall to the ground as he stood, "If I find out that you're lying..."

The old woman spat on the ground at his feet, "If I'd known what he was planning, I would have killed him myself for putting the clan in such danger." Her lip curled, "Besides, you will not find us again. You are no gadjo, but you are no Rom either." 

Inscrutable, d'Artagnan looked down at her for a moment, his jaw moving to ease some inner tension. But in the end he said nothing, merely turned on his heel and strode back to the horses, the others falling in behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all right so this will be part author's note and part soap box. Because of lot of Americans don't realize this, the Romany (also spelled Romani) people (or commonly known as "gypsy" though that term is considered pejorative - hence the phrase "being gypped" meaning to cheat someone on something) have been and remain to this day one of the most persecuted peoples throughout history. Oddly, even in this more enlightened era, many people do not realize how bad it has been and still is in many places. 
> 
> The Romany people are believed to have originated in from India (some say Pakistan) and they have been a collection of wandering tribes throughout history. In many countries, they were not allowed to hold jobs, be considered citizens, and the old woman in my story is not joking - in many centuries, up through the 1600s, murdering a Rom would not be considered murder since they were not always considered people. 
> 
> Over time, they gained a reputation as thieves and vagabonds (though I would note that if no one will hire you due to your background, you have precious little choice). They have been expelled by force and by law from several countries throughout history. During the holocaust, 25% of the romani population of europe is estimated to have been murdered by the nazis. And lest anyone think this is a historical problem, in 2010 the French government instituted a program under which they "repatriated" nearly 20,000 Romani and demolished 51 Romani camps. 
> 
> Off of the soapbox portion of my note, the specific story of d'Artagnan's mother will come likely in the next chapter. But to give some context to the other Romani terms/notes in this chapter, and to clarify a few things, I could find no record of the Musketeers King Louis putting in an expulsion order specifically in this time frame though there were common in the period. Also, the Rom camp in my story has covered wagons - while they become iconic for the Rom later one, they are only just starting to come into use at this time which is why I did not describe them as the highly decorated and colorful affairs that later wagons would be. 
> 
> Gitain is one of the words the French used to use for Gypsy. It's equally pejorative but the term gypsy is new in this period and would likely not have come into use. Gitain is used in at least one document from the time.
> 
> Gadjo - rom term for non gypsy male. It evolves later into gadje and then further but as best I can tell, this is the correct spelling for the time period.
> 
> A galb is a necklace of gold coins that is part of a traditional gypsy woman's costume. The tradition as I was told it started as it was safer for gypsy women to "wear their wealth" so to speak.
> 
> Rom organize themselves into clans. Generally with a leader elected by a council of eldars. The Phuri Dae is the wise woman of the clan in a sense and would advise the head of the clan. 
> 
> The Kalderash clan is known for their metalworking.
> 
> Patteron is the name for gypsy trail markings which are left to lead other Rom to their camp.
> 
> The Lovari clan are historically known for horse trading and fortune telling.
> 
> Mahrim will be explained in a later chapter. 
> 
> For fun, names: Chirani - pheonix; Milosh - thought to mean favors glory; Pesha - small; Lillai - spring/summer
> 
> Please note: I am not Romany myself but this is to the best of my understanding.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again everyone for the awesome comments. I truly cannot tell you how much I appreciate them especially since I know my style and my predilection for torturing characters aren't to most people's tastes.   
> 2 language/culture things for reference (and since these aren't spoilers, I thought I would put them at the beginning)  
> 1) Ecuyer - this is a rank within French nobility. Once titles began being created as offices as well as effectively land grants, more distinctions within the nobility became common and more terms came about to define those ranks/distinctions. Any noble could be referred to as Ecuyer but a more specialized rank, Chevaliers was reserved for those of ancient/noble/revered lineage, those appointed as knights etc. While it's not a direct parallel due to a slightly different heraldic system, the way I'm using it here is akin to the term "landed gentry" from England in the 1800s.

D'Artagnan said nothing as he got back on his horse, leaving the camp at a gallop with the others on his heels. He pushed his horse harder than he should through the dense woods but he wanted the dust of camp a memory as soon as possible. The others matched him pace for pace until he reigned in after they left the woods to give his horse a rest. But still, he would not look at them. The end may have come, but he did not want to see it as it arrived.

With his eyes downcast, d'Artagnan didn't see the worry on the faces of his friends as they caught up to him. Distress shadowed Athos' eyes as it hardened Porthos' jaw and painted itself across Aramis' more expressive face. "D'Artagnan..."

"Who uses the blue and gold lion?" d'Artagnan interrupted as he thrust his arms into his jacket like the leather was armor and could protect him from what was coming. Distract...

The others exchanged wary glances before Athos murmured, "The duc du Nivernais." He sighed, "The current duke is young and bankrupt. He mismanages his lands as his father and grandfather did before him and he is, as a result, out of favor and in danger of losing the province. He has been seeking aid from the King; he will likely be at the afternoon audience in a few hours."

Porthos narrowed his eyes, "'Specially if he's 'ad enough of seeking aid and has just decided to seek a new king."

Brow furrowed, Athos moved closer to d'Artagnan and started to speak again, "d'Artagnan..."

The younger man shifted on his horse, the animal giving a short whinny of protest, as he cut in, "We should head back to the Palace then." Though true enough, the evasion was almost painfully transparent; whatever skill he had at dissembling or distraction had left him. 

"D'Art, you know..." Porthos started, casting worried eyes at Aramis who picked up the thought, "You have to know it doesn't matter to us." The Spaniard's voice was almost jovial, disbelieving that he could be doubting them, but d'Artagnan again wouldn't meet their eyes and he fell to silence. 

Hurt lanced through Athos' chest at the look on d'Artagnan's face and he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Do you trust us so little then?" His voice was low but harsh and the sound of it brought d'Artagnan's head whipping over to him.

"No!" Frustration creased his features and his jaw worked as he tried to force out the words. "It's not like that! You don't understand! It has nothing to do with..." One hand clenched his reins so tightly it was blanched white, D'Artagnan put his other hand over his face as if he could wipe away the pain there. Then his shoulders bowed and he slumped, the tension draining out of him leaving him gutted.

His dark eyes raised but he did not look at his friends. "You've never asked." His voice was very quiet, almost still in the empty field, as if they were being laid atop the empty world rather than spoken into it. 

"What have we never asked?" Aramis spoke gently as Athos suddenly could not find words to speak at all. 

D'Artagnan did not speak and while his haunted eyes were gazing at the walls of Paris, it was clear he was seeing something else entirely. Distance...

After several long minutes passed without a word, Porthos put a broad hand on his shoulder but d'Artagnan flinched at the touch. He flicked a glance back briefly in apology but still didn't meet their eyes. He tried to smile though it felt wan, "I was glad of it. I was. I am. But, you've never asked how a farm boy learned to handle a sword." 

The others startled. This time, it was Porthos that spoke, eyes squinting as he thought back, "We thought... your father..."

"My father was raised on his family's estate but whatever claim there was as an ecuyer had been long gone before his time. There was no title and little wealth remaining beyond the land itself and even that has shrunk by the time I was born." His voice trailed off and Athos felt himself holding his breath so as not to interrupt him in any way. D'Artagnan took a shuddering breath and continued, "His father sent him to Italy to learn some new farming techniques in hopes of making what was left of the estate more profitable. While he was there, he met my mother." He looked down at the saddle, rubbing the smooth leather of the pommel with his thumb. "She saved him from a robbery; though it might well have been her own relatives she scared off. He used to say he fell in love with her right then. Asked her to marry him within days. And then she told him..." 

The silence lingered for a long minute, prompting Aramis to add softly, "She told him that she was gitain." 

D'Artagnan flinched at the word. "Of the people, yes." He stroked his horses' neck gently, falling silent once again. 

Athos couldn't stand the silence or the look in his eyes. "You said her name was Lillai?"

Memories shadowed d'Artagnan's face, making him seem almost a stranger as he reached back. "She went by Lillian, to distance her from the people. My father brought her back as his 'Italian' bride and let rumors spread that she had Moorish ancestry to explain her more... exotic coloring." A black gloved hand touched his arm, anchoring him, and he took strength from Athos' grip as he continued, "She told me of the people only at night but she wanted me to know my heritage. She told me it was a secret. My father told me never to speak of it." His eyes darkened till they seemed almost black.

"I was young and stupid." D'Artagnan fair near spat the words. "I wasn't nearly careful enough. I was so proud to recognize some patteron in the woods one day... After that, the rumors started to change. I never mentioned my heritage again, even in the softest whispers. But it was too late. By the time she died, the town was convinced she was a gitaino witch - she was an outcast. No one would even help us bury her." His free hand moved to rest atop his sword. "I became a mongrel in the eyes of the townsfolk."

Porthos hissed in a breath as the implication sunk in. "What happened?"

Throwing his head back, d'Artagnan let the breeze drift over his face for a moment before answering. "I learned to fight. Well," something akin to shame flitted over his face, "first I learned to run. Then, later, I learned to fight. With my fists, rocks, sticks. After I..." His jaw worked for a moment and he shook his head. "Eventually, my father gave me my grandfather's sword and taught me what forms he remembered from his lessons as a child. I got plenty of practice on how to use them for real."

There was a depth and breadth of emotion on his face that was painful to see but d'Artagnan swallowed it down before turning sincere eyes on his friends. "So you see, it was never about trust." 

Athos hadn't moved his hand from d'Artagnan's arm as he spoke but had used the grip as an excuse to move closer, until his leg was pressed against the other man's. He was stunned by the knowledge of his own assumptions, by how very much they had taken for granted. He felt the failure of it keenly but dared not pull away for fear that d'Artagnan would misinterpret it. There was a brittleness to him, like he was just waiting for the blow to fall that would shatter him to pieces, and Athos would rather cut off his own hand than be the one to strike that blow.

He squeezed his arm to remind the younger man that he was not alone here, that knowledge had not led to doom this time, and it seemed like d'Artagnan swayed towards him for a moment. Then d'Artagnan straightened, running a hand through his hair, "We should get back if we're going to be on time for court. If it is the duc behind this, maybe I can recognize the second man from among his retainers." His eyes were still dark but present now, in a way they hadn't been. "Or maybe he'll recognize me and give himself away." 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances and then looked to Athos for direction. There was clearly more to this tale, some further pain, but their youngest was right. They needed to head back if they were to appear at court and there was still a threat to the King. Hating the need, Athos let go of d'Artagnan's arm, making rash promises to himself in his head about what he would do when this threat was finally dealt with. "To the Palace then." Let's end this.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So family issues detoured this for a bit and I've felt bad for leaving it hanging so rather than wait for me to finish this section as I intended, I decided to post a short chapter that's nice and actiony. Please be warned, this means there is a cliff hanger. I hate them myself so I will not blame anyone who wants to hold off until the next chapter is posted before they read this one. You've been warned. ;)  
> As always, comments and kudos are infinitely appreciated.

PLEASE READ THE NOTE FIRST

 

King Louis had already started the afternoon audience by the time they arrived at Court, with Treville behind him and the queen on the dais, and a pair of Musketeers on each side. Nobles milled around the throne room with a careful eye to the royal pair. Every so often, one of them would approach and make a request with a deep bow. Some presented gifts that were handed to a waiting footman to be taken behind the dais. Some received favors in return; most were sent away with a glare. A half dozen additional footmen ringed the room in crisp white shirts with trim matching vests and tan breeches, holding bottles of wine, waiting to be of service.

The four musketeers entered quietly, not wanting to give away their presence too soon. "Find him," Athos commanded in a low voice. "Find him, find his people, follow them, and do it quietly. We cannot move against a duc without some evidence. I'll update the Captain."

Athos moved towards the dias while, with a jerk of the head, Porthos and d'Artagnan split into opposite directions along the outside of the room. Aramis gave them both a rueful smile and started weaving his way through the courtiers. 

The king's desire for a full court had clearly been made known throughout Paris and the room was teeming with noblemen and their wives in their afternoon court regalia, brilliant silks and satins on display. The shine and the swirl of it was making d'Artagnan dizzy but he diligently kept scanning the crowd as he moved around the perimeter.

A short trill of a whistle carried faintly over the din and he looked across the room to see Porthos nod towards one of the younger nobles near him. He was short of build and his blue doublet was of fine velvet but had clearly been refashioned from an older style. The only ornament he wore was a tarnished gold lion at his throat that matched the hair pulled back at the nape at his neck. As he moved, the short cloak draped over his left arm, moved with the drape of good quality fabric, but to a keen eye, there were spots of darning near the clasp and at the neck that told a story of use and reuse.

D'Artagnan scanned the crowd around the duc, spying a bulky dark haired man in a simple black jerkin just behind his left shoulder - clearly a bodyservant of some kind. He squinted, trying to match the servant's rough face to his memory, but he couldn't be sure enough to act. He slipped through court, trying to get a better view.

Before he could be sure, the servant turned, speaking to the duc in a voice too low to be heard and gesturing towards the dais. Without bothering to take even the most perfunctory leave of the king, the duc turned on his heel and stalked out of court, with his retainer close behind. 

The musketeers gathered at the doorway the duc had strode out of, exchanging glances that blurred worry and confusion, ignoring the high pitched murmurs of the appalled nobility. Aramis watched with narrowed eyes, "That's a poorly planned exit."

Frustration darkened Porthos' face, "So let's stop 'em from exiting."

Athos shook his head, "We have nothing to use against him yet. Nothing to connect him except for supposition." Frustration etched lines in his face as he frowned. "He must have some sort of plan."

"This is crazy. From what you said, he can't afford to anger the King this badly." D'Artagnan's eyes roved the room, searching the crowd and the archways to the gardens on the far side of the room, almost hoping for the shine of metal so they could put an end to this. But he saw no such helpful glint this time. 

Porthos' eyes had followed his and he cocked his head with suspicion, "Unless 'e's done something to ensure 'e's not the King too much longer." 

Athos cursed under his breath. "We have to get his majesty to call the audience short and get out of here."

"And hope we have enough time." Aramis added, discretely taking one of his pistols to hand. "I'll follow them and... discourage any active sort of mischief. "

Something still sat ill in d'Artagnan's stomach. "The duc wouldn't have risked such an insult if we weren't out of time." With a nod from Athos, Aramis was off but d'Artagnan didn't notice. His gaze was frantic as he scanned the room, his eyes falling on the royal dais and the growing pile of gifts behing them, a horrible idea dawning. "Did he present a gift to the King?"

"Didn't see." Porthos scowled. 

Athos squinted as he surveyed the far parts of the room for signs of trouble, "Nor I." 

D'Artagnan bit his lip as his gaze scanned the table, hoping to see something that would give it away. As he turned back to the others, he saw a familiar face in the corner of the room and was off and moving without a thought, calling over his shoulder, "See to the king."

He was across the floor in seconds. "Jehan," d'Artagnan curled his fist in the footman's sleeve with something akin to panic on his face. "What did the duc du Nivernais bring?"

"Which one is he?" For the first time, Jehan spoke to him without a trace of disgust or hatred but there was no time to wonder over it. 

"His livery is the blue and gold lion. He's the one who just caused a stir by leaving," d'Artagnan said impatiently. "What did he bring?"

"That fancy black and gold vase, lamp, thing." Jehan stumbled over the words, waving a hand at an overlarge Grecian style urn in the pile of gifts. It did indeed have a small flame burning just under its lip, like it was meant to be an oil lamp, though a poor one for the lip obscured most of the light. Jehan squinted at it in confusion, "it must be running dry - the light was higher before."

Horror froze the blood in his veins but d'Artagnan was moving before Jehan even finished the sentence. "Athos! Porthos!" He shouted as he moved, the shining walls and glittering throng blurring around him. "Get them out of here!" He didn't stop, couldn't stop, couldn't turn, couldn't waste one second of speed. If he was wrong, he would be embarrassed and likely punished for ruining a gift to the king. But if he was right... 

And he was right. He knew it as soon as the top of the vase came in sight. What the footmen had taken for the wick of an oil lamp, d'Artagnan could see was the braided coil of a slow burning fuse. Time was nearly gone - the fuse was below the lip of the jar at this point and he could already tell that he wouldn't be able to reach it beyond the narrow mouth. D'Artagnan didn't hesitate. He kept moving instead, set his jaw against the pain starting in his legs and scooped the jar up from the table as he passed, a plan already forming in his mind. He could hear shouting around him but he didn't dare risk slowing, even for a heartbeat, as he passed the dais. 

His lungs burned and every instinct was screaming at him as he bolted for the archway he knew led to the gardens. He could barely see the glow from the fuse as he passed onto the grass, stretching for every inch of distance he could get and, without slowing, without stopping, he flung the jar deeper into the gardens as he dove for the relative shelter of one of the marble columns. 

Time slowed. The sound of the explosion reached him first, a sound so loud it rendered the world silent in comparison. Then the force of it slammed into him like a blow, tearing through the column and flinging him through the air. Right on the heels of the force came the fire - rolling like a wave driving over the debris and burning everything in its path. The heat stole the breath from his lungs and pain blossomed over his body as he hit the outer wall of the Palace. His head snapped back, impacting the wall, and d'Artagnan knew nothing more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there now. Only a few ends left...

Athos was on the dais, politely requesting their majesties call an end to the audience, when d'Artagnan shouted his name. His body jolted into action, hearing the urgency in the other man's tone as a command, even before the rest of his words made it through. He pulled the King towards him with an apology, bundling him off the dais under the protection of his drawn sword. In his peripheral vision, he saw Porthos doing the same with the Queen while Treville covered their backs with a pistol in each hand.

They herded the royal couple towards the inner palace, with more Musketeers flocking to them from the halls, drawn by the shouting, even as they scanned the area for the danger. Athos barely had time to wonder what had spurred d'Artagnan when the sound and shock of the explosion burst in from the direction of the garden, scattering debris over the inlaid floor, and rattling the walls of the Palace itself. 

For a moment, Athos almost felt relieved. The blast was outside - away from the King and Queen. D'Artagnan had clearly succeeded in saving the day again. Athos let Treville hustle the royal couple inside their apartments with the other Musketeers as he turned back. Blue eyes scanned the arches, fully expecting to see d'Artagnan come through them any second, dusty mayhap, but triumphant. But the arches remained empty of everything except falling dust as the room quickly emptied and the near relief soured to dread. 

"D'Artagnan!" Athos didn't recognize the strangled shout as his own voice. He could feel a grim expression freeze on his face as panic started to gnaw at his insides. He started running, hearing the heavy sound of Porthos' bootsteps right behind him, but he couldn't take his eyes away from the garden arches. 

As soon as they crossed the threshold, dread sank into bone deep fear. Less than fifteen feet into the garden, the lush manicured green had been turned into something reminiscent of a war zone. Dirt, rocks, and devastated plants were strewn everywhere amongst shards of broken pottery. Charred ash stained the stark white of marble rubble as if the bones of the Palace itself had been put exposed. There was no sign of familiar brown leathers or dark hair anywhere. The implications stunned Athos to his core and froze him in his tracks as he scanned desperately for any sign of the younger man.

In the end, it was the blood that gave it away. Athos' frantic blue eyes had skipped over the remains of the broken columns at least twice before the rivulets of red blood coming from beneath the stark black char and white marble caught his gaze. His mind blanked and the next thing Athos knew, he was tearing at the pile of rubble, heedless of the damage it was doing to his gloves. He flung the pieces behind him, catching sight of the gashed leather of a familiar pauldron far underneath. 

Athos ripped off his torn gloves but his fingers still scrabbled on a large chunk of marble, unable to get purchase to shift it, when suddenly Porthos was beside him. The larger man grabbed hold of the marble, his muscles straining against his leathers as he heaved it away, revealing their fallen comrade. Athos was there immediately, swallowing his horror at the sight of the blood and the smell of burned leather. The Gascon was splayed face down amidst the rubble, his back clearly haven taken the brunt of the blast. His leathers were charred below his pauldron and the dust and blood lay thickly enough to make it difficult to see if there were any other wounds. Despairing, Athos couldn't even tell if his chest was moving under the grime and his hand shook as he reached out to place it on d'Artagnan's neck while Porthos flung away the remaining debris.

Athos sucked in a breath as he felt slight movement beneath his fingers. "He lives!" He reached out with his other hand, intending to roll the younger man over and pull him towards him, when he thought better of it. He didn't move his hand but spoke over his shoulder to Porthos. "Go get Aramis. He can't have had time to go far. Grab some others and get the Duc and his man but send Aramis back here. I don't want to risk moving him until he's here."

Porthos nodded and sprinted back into the Palace, shouting at someone as he went, but Athos had already turned back to d'Artagnan, somehow afraid that if he wasn't watching, the faint movement against his fingers would stop. Hold on. He thought frantically as he ran his other hand over his back, looking for the source of the blood. Aramis will come; just don't go. The words caught in his throat with a million other things he wished he could say, had said, as he traced the largest trail of blood to d'Artagnan's thigh where a deep gash streaked from his upper thigh to the outside of knee, stopped only by the leather of his boots. Athos was reduced to incoherent prayers that flitted through his mind, cast out at the universe and a God he'd long since forsworn as he wadded up his scarf and pressed it against the gaping wound. Don't leave me. He could feel a shard of pottery still in the wound but didn't dare take it out until Aramis was there. He'd seen men bleed out of wounds where the knife had been removed without someone on hand to do the stitching.

Athos' hand clenched on the scarf in some desperation, sure there were more wounds that needed tending. But that concern was driven out of his head as he heard a faint noise. "D'Artagnan?!" He brushed back the dark hair that covered d'Artagnan's face, trying hard not to let his heart stutter at the sight of more blood on his fingers. Only a fraction of the younger man's face was turned towards him in this position and Athos let go a long disappointed breath when he saw that his one visible eye was still closed. 

"'Thos?" The question was barely more than air and if Athos hadn't been watching he would have thought it merely a product of his desire. But he saw d'Artagnan's lips move fractionally, saw the grimace that followed as the younger man tried to tense his muscles in preparation for movement. Athos jerked forward but he couldn't move his hand from putting pressure on the wound on d'Artagnan's leg and his free hand could only press against his forehead somewhat desperately. "Don't move! Aramis is coming. Just... don't move." 

D'Artagnan shuddered a bit as his body failed to even stir. "'M fine," he sighed the words almost automatically but there was a tightness to his face that bespoke pain. His closed lashes cut a dark line against skin that was far too pale under its olive cast.

The words startled a growl out of Athos as he scowled down at d'Artagnan fiercely. "You," he snapped, though his free hand stroked the dark head gently, "are forbidden from using that word ever again as you clearly have no understanding of what it means."

That got the smallest of smiles from d'Artagnan but, to Athos' dismay, he still did not open his eyes. "Sound..." the younger man struggled to push the words out, "like Aramis..." The words trailed off into a whisper and the smile went with them leaving him ever so still under Athos' hands.

"d'Artagnan!" Panic gave a raw edge to his voice as his control slipped. He was about to throw caution to the wind and pull the other man closer, shake him till he woke up if need be, when Aramis' rounded the corner, his skewed curls a testament to his speed. 

"Athos! Porthos said to grab my bag and come back. What..." He trailed off as he got close enough to see the destruction and the crumpled body of d'Artagnan on the rubble. "Dios mio!" Aramis went to his knees next to Athos and lifted the scarf enough to see the wound. 

Athos swallowed hard, a rush of gratitude filling him at the sight of the medic. "There's a shard in the wound. I didn't dare move it."

The medic's sharp eyes focused on the shard, though how he could discern it from the blood, Athos had no idea. Aramis ran quick assessing hands over the rest, hissing when he saw the extent of the charred leather and burned skin, and frowning deeply at the traces of blood he found elsewhere. He turned back to the leg wound, ripping the breeches at the knee to get the fabric away from the wound. He finally knocked Athos aside as his hands quickly wrapped the scarf around the wound, shard and all. "You were right not to move the shard. We'll have to remove it where I can clean it and stitch it. Once I get this tied off, we'll have to check the burn and then see if there's any other wounds. Has he been awake at all?"

Athos nodded gruffly, his one hand still on d'Artagnan's forehead. "Briefly." He cleared his throat, "He was coherent. Barely." 

Some of the tension left Aramis' face as he tied off the scarf, "That's a good sign." With the bleeding at least temporarily staunched, he wiped a hand down his face and then turned his attention to d'Artagnan's side. He tried gently to move the charred leather away from the skin and Aramis winced when it stuck to the burn. 

Nausea rising up in him, Athos paled at the sight. Before Aramis could ask, he had drawn his small dagger and was cutting the leather up the seams so it could be peeled away. The smell of the burned leather had masked the scent of charred flesh and Aramis hissed as a burn more than a handspan in length was exposed. "There's not much I can do for this except clean it." He grimaced. "It's going to hurt but if we can keep it clean and dry, it should heal, barring infection." Aramis frowned absently as he considered, leaning close to d'Artagnan's chest to listen. "We need to get him off this rubble and cleaned up. I have to clean that leg before I can stitch it if there's any hope of avoiding infection and, by the sound of it, his ribs are cracked if not worse." His face looked strained. "With all this covering him, I can't tell if there's anything else that needs tending."

Athos looked up at Aramis, his hand still resting lightly on d'Artagnan's head, as if holding him. "We'll have to move him carefully." He gave a frustrated growl. "We need Porthos."

"I can help." The unexpected voice made both Musketeers startle, Aramis drawing his pistol and Athos shifting to cover d'Artagnan more thoroughly as he adjusted his grip on his knife. Face pale, the footman held both hands up wide, his open hands and tight vest making it clear that he harbored no weapons. "I just want to help. My name is Jehan." 

Blue eyes narrowed at him, "You're the one that d'Artagnan spoke to in the hall." It wasn't a question. Athos glanced over at Aramis who shrugged, clearly leaving the decision to Athos. He scrutinized the other man, something in his face prickling at his instincts, but it was the stillness of d'Artagnan under his hand that decided him. D'Artagnan should never be so still. "Fine." Athos pointed the knife at him with an ice blue glare. "Do anything to harm him..." he left the threat unsaid as Jehan nodded.

The three men made quick work of moving d'Artagnan to one of the guest rooms in the Palace and Jehan was sent to get a bucket of water and clean cloths, which he did with surprising alacrity. Aramis added some herbs to the water to help ward off infection and shoved a damp cloth at Athos, motioning to d'Artagnan's side before he started washing his leg.

They worked in silence for a long moment, Athos grateful the Gascon was not conscious for this as he well recalled the sting from Aramis' herbs. He was carefully dabbing at the charred edges of the burn when Aramis suddenly pulled back, throwing his washcloth back in the basin with no little violence. Startled, Athos looked up, "What is it?" Jaw locked, Aramis didn't answer, instead his elegant fingers were already working to thread his rare metal needle. They didn't shake, but long familiarity let Athos see his composure was rattled. "Aramis?" Aramis shook his head as he set the first stitch, getting the thread anchored in d'Artagnan's flesh. Athos fought the urge to shake him, "Aramis!" 

Still ignoring him, with swift movements, Aramis stitched the cut as near to the shard as he dared. Only when the shrapnel was removed, the area wiped again for any possible remnants of dirt and rubble, and the needle once again flashing in its familiar rhythm, did the Spaniard speak again, "Athos." He had to clear his throat and he still refused to look up from his stitching, a dark fall of curls masking his face in a move that was so reminiscent of d'Artagnan that it made Athos' chest ache. "Look at his leg." 

Confused, Athos looked down. For a long moment, all he saw was the stark line of stitches covering far too much of the other man's leg as Aramis worked his way down towards his knee. Even stitched closed, the shrapnel wound was ragged and nearly a foot long. But awful though it was, he'd known of that; Aramis must be speaking of something else. So Athos tried to focus beyond the wound. He saw the long line of the Gascon's thigh muscles under his skin, the torn edge of his breeches... and the silver tracery of old scars gleaming in the light. Blue eyes narrowed and his hand went out without any conscious thought, tracing the multitude of healed wounds, his fingers reading the tale of deeper wounds written in raised lines mingled with the flat discoloration of shallower ones. 

Stunned, Athos followed the tracery of lines up d'Artagnan's legs. He looked up at his burned side again, forcing his eyes to see beyond the ghastly burn, and saw a similar tracery over the sides of the young man's ribs. "How..." He couldn't even complete the question. 

Aramis' face was grim and pale as he tied off the thread and started to bandage the wound. "Look at how straight they are. It was something sharp; I'd say a sword, maybe a knife." His hand clenched on the bandage for a moment before continuing, "They're old, Athos. Some of them at least several years. And overlapping. For some of them... He must have been little more than a child."

Emotions burned through Athos like an explosion of their own, leaving him numb in the shock of it. He looked up at Aramis, hoping for a denial, and then his eyes wandered the room as he tried to absorb it. His gaze landed on Jehan and it took him a moment to identify the emotions on the footman's face: sorrow and... shame. But no sign of surprise. That realization broke the numbness into rage and with a growl, he advanced on the footman, "You know of this." The pieces were falling together rapidly in his head now that he had enough to see the picture. "You were the one who came to the garrison the other day. The neighbor from Lupiac." He stalked forward dangerously.

If anything, the shame on Jehan's face intensified, as he hung his head, refusing to look at the Musketeers. "We were friends once." There was perhaps nothing he could have said that would have shocked Athos more than those small words and even in his rage it gave him pause. Jehan neither noticed nor cared how close he was to death. He closed his eyes, trapped in memories of his own making. "When we thought his mother was just a Moor, bad though that was." The footman swallowed, opening his eyes, and when there was no sign of surprise on the faces of the two Musketeers, he kept going. "But then he could read the devil markings of those... those..."

Athos face tightened and Jehan showed a modicum of self preservation when he left that sentence unfinished. Blue eyes were cold as glaciers as they canvassed from d'Artagnan's skin back to the footman's pale face. "So you cast him out. But, no," Athos gazed narrowed at the other man in disgust. "D'Artagnan's father was a landowner of some prominence. So you couldn't cast him out. In public."

Jehan leaned back against the wall as if his legs could no longer support him. "We would seek him out in private. In fields. Back alleys. Taunting him with our fists and then our knives. He never reported us. And because of what he was, no one would say anything against it. If it was true, he had no right to live anyway." The last word was cut off as Athos shoved him up on the wall by his neck, blue eyes flashing. Jehan made no move to defend himself, just held up his hands as he choked out, "I have already offered him my life in payment. Twice." 

And though d'Artagnan had chosen a higher road, Jehan could see his death spelled out in the blue eyes of the older man, writ large in his implacable features, when the door opened and the dark skinned Musketeer from before entered. Porthos surveyed the scene with a raised eyebrow, taking in the tension at a glance. "Not 'dat I'm objecting, but di'n't we agree that I'd be 'aving the fun today?" 

Aramis glanced up from where he'd been tending to the burn. "That... man, for lack of a better word, helped torture d'Artagnan for years." 

Disbelief warred with burgeoning rage on Porthos' face as he loomed over the footman. But his entrance had given Athos' frayed control a moment to reassert itself and he stepped back. "This debt belongs to d'Artagnan." Eyes closed, he took a deep slow breath. And then another. His battered hand rested on the hilt of his sword as Porthos kept the footman pinned to the wall. "But understand this, d'Artagnan is ours now." Mine now. "If you ever harm him again in any way... if even a whisper of his heritage becomes known, death will be a mercy compared to what comes for you."

Athos did not wait for him to nod, he turned back to d'Artagnan, writing the footman out of his existence as Porthos flung the man into the hallway before coming over to join them. "How is 'e, Aramis?" He gave a worried glance at Athos, who had sat by the head of the bed and was stroking the hair back from d'Artagnan's face as Aramis debrided the charred skin around the burn. 

The Spaniard surveyed his work for a long moment before he set down the small blade. "I would feel better if he would wake up but Athos said he woke briefly before I arrived and was coherant. The wounds I've found will be painful and will add some spectacular scarring, but they're not fatal." Dark eyes gazed on the still form before letting out a breath. "He should recover. I suspect he was exhausted before this on top of the impact but he should wake by tomorrow."

At his words, Athos' hands clenched in d'Artagnan's hair, feeling the soft locks between his fingers, before he resumed the constant stroking motion. Whether he meant to comfort d'Artagnan or himself, he wasn't sure but he felt the yawning void of their assumptions rising up within him. But there would be time enough for recriminations once d'Artagnan opened his eyes. Athos opened his mouth to speak but found he had to clear his throat before he was able to shape the words, "Is it safe to take him back to the garrison?" 

Aramis met his eyes for a long moment, reading the deep buried fear and the strength of his desire to have d'Artagnan to hand, someplace they could keep him safe. From anyone if need be. After a pause, the medic nodded, "If we can get a wagon and make a litter, it shouldn't harm him." He stood, wiping his hands on one of the still damp cloths. "Porthos and I will go make the arrangements." 

Porthos made a noise of protest but found himself bundled out of the room with Aramis, leaving Athos alone. The older man's lips quirked at the blatant manipulation but any pretense of a smile quickly vanished as he looked down at d'Artagnan. Once again, Athos cursed the fact that he was not a loquacious man. He would give much to have even a tenth of Aramis' skill with words. He would give more if d'Artagnan would wake to hear them. 

Athos stroked his hair, enjoying the mindless repetition of the act, the connection however slight. His sharp eyes glanced down at the wounds and softened at the tracery of scars. He found himself holding the younger man's hand, his thumb making small circles as he cradled the appendage in his palm. It was as if his whole world had reformed and he was forced to see all things in a new light. 

D'Artagnan had never lied to him. Despite his momentary fear of the other day, Athos was certain of that. He'd answered every question they'd ever asked, handed over the story of his father's death like it was a handful of plucked daises. He'd given it up so easily and with so little resistance that it never even occurred to them that there was more to his background. Distract. And so they, assuming they already knew the whole of it, had never asked.

Athos folded his hand around d'Artanan's cold one, trying to share some warmth as he struggled to find the words. "I don't care where you come from. Nothing in your past will change this." He felt the comforting throb of a pulse against his fingers. "I will stand with you. Always."


	14. Chapter 14

The night passed, though Athos hardly noticed. They had placed d'Artagnan in his room at the garrison as it was the only one with room for the four of them and privacy to boot. As soon as Porthos had laid d'Artagnan down, Athos had retaken his spot sitting by his head and steadfastly refused to move. Distantly, he heard Aramis going about changing bandages and nagging at him to get some rest. At one point, he felt Porthos strong grip on his shoulder but he shrugged it off. He would not be moved from d'Artagnan's side. 

And so it was that when d'Artagnan began to emerge from the twisted tendrils of dreams and memories, the first thing he noticed that was not pain was the weight of a hand tangled in his hair. He struggled to put together his fractured thoughts but they scattered as he tried to gather them, like a pack of cards strewn on the floor. D'Artagnan struggled to make sense of what had happened but with the pounding in his head, he couldn't be sure what was memory and what was nightmare so he gave the effort up for later and tried to pinpoint how badly off he was. 

He hurt. Quite a lot actually. It felt like... Just like it had with Vadim, he realized. It did feel much the same. The deep total body ache. Like every muscle, every part of his body, had been struck and bruised. He didn't dare move. He was clearly in a bed - the sweet smell of straw from the mattress and the scratch of wool blankets under his chin was unmistakable. He didn't want to open his eyes but he could hear the clash of swords outside and the calls of familiar voices. Likely the garrison then. 

There was a steady pain in his side - he had not noticed that he'd automatically started to breathe shallower to minimize that pain. It felt raw enough that his mind shield away from looking at it closer. It was only after he parsed out that pain that he recognized the pain in his leg. It had felt so familiar, so in keeping with his dreams, that he had barely registered it. D'Artagnan didn't bother to test it - he knew well the feel of a deep sharp wound and the tight pull of stitches that followed. Pain aside, there was warmth on his arm as well, another hand he thought, and a weight by his shoulder. His thoughts still muddled, d'Artagnan couldn't make it out.

It left him with no other option but to open his eyes. D'Artagnan did so slowly, careful not to move anything else, absently wondering how he'd made even his eyelids hurt, to see a tousled head buried in the bed at his shoulder. His lip quirked up. Even battered and exhausted, his dark eyes were infinitely fond. 

The moment stretched out and Athos, for who else could it be but Athos - d'Artagnan would know that disheveled hair anywhere - somehow felt his silent stare and started to rouse. His face was haggard and his blue eyes swam with despair as they looked up at d'Artagnan only to widen in shock when they meet d'Artagnan's warm gaze. Athos couldn't speak; he wasn't even sure he was breathing. There was something he didn't recognize in d'Artagnan's gaze but it steadied him deep inside in a place he hadn't even known needed it. 

"Athos," d'Artagnan started, but his voice cracked with the dryness of his throat and it turned into a cough. It was weak but it was movement enough to set his side on fire all over again. The room spun and black spots started encroaching on vision but he refused to give in.

As D'Artagnan fought to get himself under control, he realized that Athos had moved and was holding him up, cradling him against his chest. "Aramis!" The older man shouted somewhat frantically, trying to brace d'Artagnan as best he could. 

With great effort, d'Artagnan tried to wave it off while forcing himself to control his breathing as best he could. "...Fine..."

Athos choked out a growl as he shook the younger man slightly, "I told you, you are forbidden to use that word ever again. That's an order." He shifted his grip and a thread of fear laced through d'Artagnan that he would pull away but Athos was only reaching for a cup of water on the bedside. He held it up to d'Artagnan's mouth and the coolness calmed his throat. "I should go get Aramis." D'Artagnan head the words as they rumbled through Athos' chest but he made no further attempts to move. 

D'Artagnan shook his head before letting it rest wearily against Athos' chest. He could hear the older man's heartbeat through his shirt and realized suddenly Athos must have been by his bed for some time - the older man was not in his leathers and his shirt bore the hallmarks of having been slept in. Despite that, the scent of them hung around Athos as always - leather, spice and something sharp that reminded d'Artagnan of his sword. It was comforting; d'Artagnan fought the urge to take a deeper breath and tried again to speak, "What happened?"

He felt the sigh more than heard it before Athos answered irritably. "You saved the day. Again." The arm around d'Artagnan's chest tightened just slightly, careful to avoid his burned side, and he felt Athos' forehead come to rest against his head. "And you got hurt. Again." A shudder ran through his body before he continued, "I found you half buried in rubble. I thought..." A careful breath huffed against his hair as Athos let that sentence die uncompleted. "We moved you to a room and Aramis patched you as best he could." 

Now that the shock of waking and the pain of his coughing fit had passed, d'Artagnan opened his eyes to survey the damage. He was shirtless under the blanket, with a bandage covering his side, and what was left of his breeches had been cut away from his thigh to accommodate his wound. Athos could tell the moment d'Artagnan realized what had been revealed and his grip tightened as the younger man started to move. "No." His voice was as firm as his grip. "No, d'Artagnan, stop. You'll injure yourself further." D'Artagnan showed no sign of hearing him and Athos pinned him against his chest with both arms, still careful of his wound, pressing his forehead against the other man's, "Please, d'Artagnan. It's all right, I swear it."

There was a depth in his voice that spoke of knowledge and it froze d'Artagnan in place. The very stillness of the other man sparked panic in Athos, who found himself, for the first time in his life, babbling. "The footman. Your neighbor. The cursed man was there when Aramis was tending your wounds. He told us..."

Dismay turned to despair and d'Artagnan fair wilted in Athos' hold, silencing him. The pain in his side and leg faded into the background and he heard the breath whistle through his lungs. Distance, distract... He could not do it. Whatever reserves he had were used up and there was no where left to hide. D'Artagnan closed his eyes and spoke carefully. "They almost killed me." It was Athos turn to still behind him but his arms did not move and d'Artagnan took hold of what was left of his courage. "It was why my father gave me the sword. They had bled me before but that time there were so many and they were all armed... I don't know if they meant to kill me or not but... I nearly bled to death in a field. My father was furious that I wouldn't name them afterwards but it wouldn't have helped. It was my own fault for giving even a hint of my heritage." 

"Don't be ridiculous." Athos growled, turning just enough that d'Artagnan could meet his eyes. "You are worth a hundred of that sniveling worm." He willed d'Artagnan to see the sincerity in him. "We do not care where you came from. I do not care." He was helpless to prevent the next words from leaving his mouth, loathe though he was to expose himself in this way, "You are the best man I have ever known."

Echoes of long gone words resounded throughout d'Artagnan's head, Mongrel, worthless, mutt. But there was something in Athos' mien, a fierceness in his eyes, though his normal expression remained unchanged. D'Artagnan had to look away. "I am gitan."

"You are a musketeer." Athos' voice rang with truth. "I will stand by you."

"We will stand by you." Aramis amended from the door as he entered. Athos narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously but the Spaniard smiled at the other two men as he came over to check d'Artagnan's wounds. "I am glad to see you awake, d'Artagnan. I was afraid for a bit you would make a liar out of me."

"More of a liar?" Porthos' questioning grin widened as he saw the two on the bed. He lifted the tray in his hands slightly, "Serge sent soup." 

The confusion on d'Artagnan's face seemed to pull at something connected right behind Athos breastbone. It was far too clear that he didn't understand, didn't believe, maybe even couldn't believe, what he had said. It was painfully obvious that he couldn't even understand why the Musketeers were still there. He watched in a daze as Aramis bustled around changing bandages and checking stitches while he and Porthos kept up a steady chatter around them. Bemused, d'Artagnan let the noise wash over him as his eyes slid closed. He kept them closed as he sipped the cup of broth that Porthos pressed into his hand.

Athos met Aramis and Porthos' eyes as they continued to move about and saw a matching determination there. D'Artagnan was theirs. And if he could not believe them when they said they would stand by him, then they would just have to show him. Athos settled in more comfortably so that d'Artagnan's head could rest against his chest and he spoke in a low voice while their friends continued to talk around them, "I will say it as many times as it takes for you to believe me. You are ours now, mine now. Nothing can change that. We are called the inseparables for a reason. And we will never take you for granted again." 

Held tight against Athos' chest, the bright flash of Porthos' sly smile and the steady sound of Aramis' voice, d'Artagnan thought he just might believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've hit the end folks! Thanks for all the comments and the kudos. They are appreciated far more than I can say.


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